


Shameless: The Mickey Milkovich Story; Season 1

by FistfulofDollars



Series: Shameless: The Mickey Milkovich Story [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Both characters are underage, Canon Compliant, Drug Use, Explicit Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Kash/Ian, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Violence, Racial/homophobic slurs, Underage Sex, some blood/gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26402596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FistfulofDollars/pseuds/FistfulofDollars
Summary: The original creators of Shameless left too much of Mickey to the imagination, so here it is: the entirety of Shameless, but through the eyes of Mickey Milkovich.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Shameless: The Mickey Milkovich Story [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1918894
Comments: 10
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you get started here, I just want to make it clear that this is very much canon compliant. So, if you've seen the show, you know what triggers are coming. That said, I'll be doing my best to accurately update the tags with new posts, so keep an eye out for anything that you might not want to read.  
> I'm hoping to make it all the way through the series, but no promises. At least through season 3.  
> Also, my best friend, (who is writing these notes for me and is the best ever and I love her very dearly because she is as I said: the best) who has been reading through and occasionally editing (don't get mad at her or me for mistakes or else) doesn't want her AO3 tagged but says you can say hi on tumblr if you feel so inclined. Find her at demadogz.tumblr.com. Be nice to her or else.  
> Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Season 1; Chapter 1:

Mandy spends half the night crying, and the other half chain-smoking in her room; Mickey can smell it every time he leaves his room for a fresh beer. She walks past his bed twice, first to shower and then later in the night to piss without bothering to close the door. Because no one in this house thinks about him enough to realize he’s probably fucking sick of hearing all their bodily functions. Both times she walks by, he sees her makeup running in black lines down her cheeks, and she sniffles pitifully as though he’s supposed to comfort her or something. He doesn’t offer though. If she’s done something stupid, getting pregnant seems most likely, then it’s her problem telling Terry. Their father might go easy on her, but if he finds out Mickey knew something first, something he considers a father’s business, there would be no ‘going easy’ on him. So, Mandy cries all night, and Mickey does his best not to hear her and pretends the reason he can’t sleep has more to do with the cold or his lumpy mattress than any brotherly concern.

He does finally fall asleep. The sound of steady wind blowing the broken gutter against the eaves in a rhythmic tap helps him drift off. Before he can sleep long enough to dream, he’s awake again. He jerks involuntarily, expecting a larger body on the bed waiting to catch him vulnerable, but even in the dusky light of the early dawn he can see it’s just Mandy, sitting on the edge of his bed in nothing but her underwear.

When they were younger, she would sleep with him as often as not, but they gave up the habit a long time ago.

She makes no attempt to crawl in now, just sits and smokes while he pulls himself up to lean his back against the wall. When he holds out his hand, she passes him the cigarette wordlessly.

“Do you think I’m attractive?” She asks once he’s smoked the last traces of sleep away.

“Fuck no. That’s disgusting.” Then, because he doesn’t like the way it sounds, he adds, “You’re my sister.”

He reaches over the side of the bed and grabs a shirt off the floor, but when he holds it out to her, she doesn’t take it. Instead, her arms, pale and blue in the early morning light, come up and wrap around her head. The soft noises and tremble in her shoulders tells him she’s crying again.

Since she isn’t going to take it, Mickey pulls the shirt over his own head before putting his hand on her shoulder. As if she’s been waiting for it, she scoots over as soon as he touches her.

He wants to comfort her, she is his little sister after all, but there’s a reason he keeps his distance from people. Mandy isn’t exempt from the uncomfortable clench his gut gives as soon as she leans against him. He asks her what’s wrong, but she just keeps sniffling and cuddling against his chest and Mickey really is about to throw her off - tears or not - when she finally says:

“It’s that stupid Ian Gallagher.” She looks at him, but he’s looking up and away so she continues, “I hate him.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey knows the Gallagher’s, has one in his class at school, but can’t picture who she’s talking about. He tries to shift away, pull himself off the bed without offending her and possibly sending her into classic-Mandy hysterics, but she just snuggles closer looking for comfort.

For just a moment, as the morning sun starts to break over the houses and lighten the room, Mickey thinks he sees a dangerous look on Mandy’s face. A cross between hatred and vindictiveness that makes him happy he’s typically on her good side. Then it’s gone and she starts sniffling again.

“I went over to his house last night,” She’s looking down like she’s embarrassed, but Mickey knows better. She’s about to ask him for something, and he’s relieved because he wants her to be happy; he also just desperately needs her to get the fuck off his bed and give him some space.

She continues, “He raped me.”

“What!?” Mickey feels himself stand up, and Mandy, instead of getting mad when she’s tossed off, is looking at him with a frightening intensity.

“What the fuck did you just say?” He tries again when she doesn’t answer.

“Ian Gallagher. He raped me at his house last night.” She’s wiping her eyes now and looking more like her usual self than she had all night. “He’s a perv, and I want you to beat the shit out of him.”

“Beat the… Mandy I’ll fucking kill him!” Mickey grabs pants off the floor and pulls them on roughly. He struggles with the old zipper - these pants were hand-me-downs even before he got them - but the more he tugs at it, the less cooperative it is.

“No don’t.” She pushes herself off the mattress while she talks and swats his hands away from the zipper, doing it up for him. “If you kill him, you’ll go to prison, and I’ll be stuck here all alone. Just hurt him. Make it so everyone knows what a perv he is.”

Mickey lets out a rough sigh. He doesn’t correct her that if he went to prison, she’d still have her other brothers around; knows better than to suggest they’d be good company. Even so, he’s furious. No one messes with Mandy if their last name isn’t Milkovich. He can take this fucker Ian Gallagher with just his fists, but if things get out of hand, and that little shit gets more than he can handle, well, that’s just life.

Outside, the wind picks up and the gutter gives a screeching groan, but, like everything in this city, keeps holding on long after it should have crumpled to the ground.

*-*-*

It takes less than half an hour for Mickey to wake the rest of the way up, pull his brothers out of bed, and for the three of them to walk down to the mini mart where Mandy said the Gallagher boy works. The further they walk, the more pissed-off he gets. He knows they have less - less money, less stuff, just less - than most of the other piss-poor people in the Yards, but he’s also been raised with an idea that the Milkovich name should mean something. Just because they have no credit, no jobs, no cash, other people think they’re garbage, but Mandy has never done anything to anyone - that didn’t deserve it at least - and he is going to teach one hell of a lesson to the fuckwad who thinks he can mess with her.

He’s thinking like this when he bursts into the store, angry and overconfident, and it’s a move he has the rest of the day to regret because it gives Gallagher just enough of a warning to bolt from behind the coolers to a different door. Mickey gets only the slightest glimpse of red hair, and _shit_ that kid is fast, before the door slams and locks. He’s left pounding on it, more pissed than ever.

There’s nothing to do but circle around the building and try to catch the redhead before he gets too far, but Mickey sends his brothers ahead and circles back. He goes back into the shop and pulls the first thing he can find off the shelf, liking the way the shop-owner looks at him as he opens it with his teeth. If the resignation in the guy’s eyes is anything to go by, this will be a good place to get food when his wallet is empty from now on. There’s no sign of the redhead in the alley behind the store, so he and his brothers spend the rest of the day wandering the Yards trying to blow off steam. He can’t get it out of his head. Some fucker messing with Mandy, hurting her, like she’s not the one who steals Sudafed for him when he catches a bad winter cold, or washes the piss stains out of his pants when he gets so shit-faced he forgets what a toilet is, let alone how to use one. And not once has she compared him to their father, even when she would have been perfectly right to do so. Ian Gallagher had fucked with _that_ Mandy, and Mickey is going to make him pay for it.

*-*-*

As morning turns to noon, he starts to second guess his promise not to kill Gallagher. When Mickey does finally get his hands on him, there won’t be enough towel-headed shop clerks in the world to protect him.

Around one o’clock, the Milkovich brother’s luck turns: they run into the walking encyclopedia Lip Gallagher. Mickey has no real beef with him, has even used his services to pass a few classes. He’s also admired the way the boy answers questions in class without blinking, argues with teachers, seems to attract the attention of girls effortlessly, and...other aspects of Lip Gallagher worth admiring. But family is family, and even if giving this brother a beat down can’t make up for what happened to Mandy, it might be enough to flush the other one out.

He wants to go easy, leave bruises so Ian will know what’s coming for him without jeopardizing his chances to buy papers off of Lip later if he needs them, but changes his mind when he sees the way the blonde skank hanging off the older Gallagher’s arm - Kindra or Kasey, Mickey can’t remember even though they have American history together - is looking at him: like she’s getting ready to decline a fuck he would never, not even on his worst days, offer. Unlike his father, and apparently Lip Gallagher, Mickey knows a crazy bitch when he sees one.

He can’t ignore the way she’s looking at him, though, and then Lip starts talking shit about Mandy. Nothing Mickey hasn’t heard before, but still, it’s the wrong day for that. So, when he does finally bring the broom handle up and into Lip’s chest, he imagines this Gallagher feels almost as bad for mouthing off about Mandy as the other one will for putting his hands on her.

They don’t get far with Lip before some lady at the end of the street screams that she’s calling the cops, and the three brothers decide it’s time to split. Mickey can hear blonde skank cooing over Lip as he runs off, and briefly considers yelling back a warning about bitches who look at you like your shit don’t stink, but decides against it. The things men in this city put themselves through just to get their dicks wet are absolutely disgusting, but also none of Mickey’s business.

With some of his pent-up anger released on the older Gallagher, Mickey is happy when Tony suggests they go home and drink. He hasn’t given up on fire crotch’s beating yet, but he doesn’t mind waiting until Lip delivers his message, and the streets are only getting colder as the day wears on. Home isn’t much better. Even when the gas bill gets paid, the radiators, which would have been new around the time his great-grandfather was signing up to join the war, barely give off enough heat to keep the frost off the windowsills.

Mickey might not understand what the word trigonometry is supposed to mean, let alone how to do it, and even the remedial books he sometimes gets assigned in English class are more likely to give him a headache than make sense, but he’s smart enough to know his brothers are absolute fucking idiots. He couldn’t care less about sports, but between hockey and football there’s usually a game on the TV at home any given time and, after sixteen years, he’s pretty much absorbed all the rules and common plays. The other Milkovich boys, despite their self-proclaimed fanaticism for all the different leagues, can barely tell an assist from a rebound, and listening to them argue nonsensically with the ref from the couch is enough to make a person go mad. It gives him a sick feeling in his stomach listening to them talk for a minute only to confuse themselves and change the subject. Worse is their self-assuredness. For his brothers, and his father, the world begins and ends with the things they are capable of grasping, and everything else might as well not exist. He pities and envies them sometimes. Tonight, with Mandy off god knows where, and the sun slowly setting even though Ian Gallagher continues to exist somewhere unmolested, he’s mostly feeling pity for himself.

He can’t protect Mandy, can’t hold his family together the way the Gallagher’s seem to, he’s cold and hungry, and then of course, there is always that other thing. That thing inside him that makes him stare at Lip, and the other boys in his class, when they raise their hands and the hems of their shirts pull up. It takes up more and more of his mental space until he finally gives in and makes eye contact with the boys in the locker room. Until one of them notices in a way the others don’t, and twenty minutes later he finds himself behind the bleachers telling some kid that if he ever breathes a word of what happened, death will be a mercy compared to what he’ll do to them. All of that, and still, nothing can stop the thoughts for long. Thinking about it puts him on edge, and after a few hours of sitting around, he jumps off the couch feeling suddenly energized.

“Let’s fucking go. Hit up that Kash-and-Grab before the fucker goes home.”

*-*-*

The night is so cold it’s almost uncomfortable to breathe outside, but they’re walking with a purpose and Mickey knows it’s just a matter of time before they catch up with Gallagher. The thought of all the things he’s going to do when he finally catches him warms Mickey slightly. Fire crotch can’t avoid them forever.

No luck again at the store, where the owner locks up and drives away. They’ve wasted the whole day looking for that fuckhead and, considering how late it is, Mickey feels like he’s far too sober. The L takes them to one of their regular weed dealers where they stock up despite the fact all they can offer is IOUs. It probably has something to do with his father’s impending release on parole, but Mickey likes to think his own street cred is up lately too.

Then it’s back to the Gallagher’s, where the eldest sister must be turning tricks because they run into a clueless looking rich kid stumbling into an overpriced car that sticks out dangerously in this neighborhood. He says Ian’s not home, but Mickey looks up just in time to see Lip jumping away from the second-story window. He yells up a warning, but it’s not worth trying to break in now. The weed in his pocket is calling out to him, and after only a few hours of sleep the night before, all he wants to do is go home and fall into his mattress.

Gallagher’s beating can wait; Mickey won’t forget.

By the time they get back home, he’s running on fumes. There’s a Milkovich-style party going on in the living room to celebrate Iggy’s return, but he feels disconnected from it tonight. When he was a kid, he used to love coming home parties. The joy of seeing various family members return after their “trips away”, along with the spiked punch and potato chips in bowels his mother would keep filled were one of the bright spots in his childhood. Tonight though, he goes straight to his room and only stays up long enough to take a piss and light a joint. He smokes it laying on his back on his bed listening to the thumping music of the party coming through the door. Halfway through, he puts it out in the ashtray next to his bed and passes out before the curling tendrils of smoke have faded away.

*-*-*

He wakes up with deja vu so strong, for a moment he’s convinced it’s yesterday morning and everything he thought he did yesterday had just been a dream. Mandy’s sitting on the edge of his bed smoking again, but when he blinks the sleep out of his eyes, the differences between the two mornings comes into focus.

She’s fully clothed this time, dressed in her favorite jacket and worn out jeans, and instead of streaky tear marks, her face is flushed as though she’s been outside in the cold. The sun is also up this time sending dusty light through the thin curtains.

It doesn’t surprise him that he’s slept late; Mickey never sets an alarm to sleep through.

“This gonna be an everyday thing now?” He asks. When he speaks, Mandy startles; lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed him wake up. Instead of answering, she leans across the bed, so close he can smell her hairspray, puts her cigarette out in the ashtray, and says:

“Ian’s outside.” That wakes Mickey up. Whether it’s to confront him about the beating he gave Lip, or to try and lay his hands on Mandy again, the kid made the wrong choice coming here. Mickey stands up and makes for the door still wearing his clothes from yesterday, but before he can get far, Mandy grabs the back of his shirt.

“No, you don’t understand.” She says, standing up so she can get between him and the door. “That thing I told you about yesterday was just, like, a misunderstanding. Ian and I are cool now. We’re going to start dating.”

“You’re what?”

He’s used to getting whiplash from his sister’s moods, but this is over the top even for her. She seems undeterred though and continues.

“We’re going to be boyfriend and girlfriend, you know? Dates and flowers and all that… normal stuff.”

“Why the fuck would you want to date a guy that raped you?”

“It’s not like that, it was just a misunderstanding.” She’s tugging at the pull of her zipper in a way that makes him want to snap at her to stop fidgeting, but he fishes the slightly singed leftovers of yesterday's joint out of the ashtray and relights it instead.

“What fucking kind of misunderstanding…?”

“Alright!” She snaps and throws her hands up like Mickey has accused her of taking the last beer or something. “I might have exaggerated a little, or a lot, he didn’t rape me.”

She stops talking, as if there’s nothing more to say on the subject, and Mickey focuses on taking long, slow inhales followed by smokey exhales until he’s sure he can say something without blowing up at the only person in this house worth having a conversation with. After a few more drags, he comes to the conclusion that Mandy isn’t in danger, she’s just up to her same old shit, and if she wants to date Ian-fucking-Gallagher that’s her business. He’s a little surprised to find he genuinely doesn’t give a shit, even after the anger he had been feeling yesterday. Maybe if he had thought about it a little, he might have realized she was “exaggerating” from the start and saved himself a lot of trouble, but he’s still getting used to a world where the Mandy that no longer crawls into his bed when Terry is on a bender is also the Mandy that no longer spares him her manipulative lies.

“Fine, whatever.” He says finally, motioning towards the door as those he’s dismissing her. She smiles like he’s given them his blessing, grabs her bag off the bed for school, and asks him pleadingly not to touch a hair on Ian’s head. He watches her go silently, and she shows her appreciation by gently closing his door with a snick instead of letting it slam shut like usual.

The Gallagher brothers obviously have the same taste in women, he thinks, as he lays back down in bed.

School can wait until tomorrow; all he wants to do today is sleep.

*-*-*

After that, Ian starts coming around occasionally, cuddling up with Mandy on the couch like they’re a couple of besties in a chick-flick, and it’s okay because Terry isn’t here to flip out about some guy shacking-up with his daughter. Mandy’s either told their brothers the same “misunderstanding” shit she told him, or making the connection between the Ian sitting on their couch, drinking their beer, and the Ian they had been looking for the other day is too much of a leap for them. So, all-in-all, it should have been okay that Mandy is bringing her first ‘real boyfriend’ around, and it would have been, except for one thing: Ian is without a doubt the most attractive person Mickey has ever seen. Having him around the house is some kind of horrible torture worse than anything even Terry Milkovich could dream up for his son.

The few glances Mickey had gotten of him, before Mandy started bringing him around the house, did nothing to prepare him for what it would be like when he got his first good look. Most of the people born in this part of town - himself included - look the part of the trash they are, but not Ian. Ian looks like he could walk into any room, anywhere, and no one would turn him away. His dirty clothes and tattered pants do nothing to hide how attractive he is. If anything, they only make it that much more striking in contrast. Ian’s hair is like someone has taken all the tormented passion inside of Mickey and made a real, physical color out of it, and he can never steal enough glances to be satisfied.

When Mandy falls asleep in Ian’s arms on the couch or leaves to go take a shower, the two of them sit in forced silence, staring at the TV until inevitably something will have to be passed or shared and Mickey will be forced to look. He can only pray Ian doesn’t notice the way his eyes dart to his lips or the freckles that cover most of his cheeks. The unwanted thoughts of what it must look like under Ian’s clothes keep Mickey up at night, and have drastically increased the number of times he finds himself jacking off, or wanting to.

It’s a problem that pushes every other problem Mickey has off to the side just from the pure scope of it. Not admitting he’s experiencing his first all-consuming crush doesn’t make it any less real, and Mickey’s mind has been running on half capacity since he got his first good look at Gallagher. The other half keeps up a near-constant dialogue with itself: wondering where Ian is, what he’s doing, what sort of things he likes, and when Mickey will see him next. These stupid questions are cutting into Mickey’s sleep, making him smoke too much and drink red bull after red bull to try and compensate. He no longer has to feel guilty about what kind of porn he watches; almost every time he touches himself now, he thinks about Ian.

Hunger, his other main source of stress, has also become less of an issue recently. The store owner where Ian works is proving to be just as much of a pussy as Mickey thought, and he goes there to pick up food as often as he can get away with.

The third time he heads out to the store with a grumbling stomach and empty wallet, he comes through the back alley. Smoking and walking past piles of ancient trash, stacks of cardboard boxes molding in the winter damp, and a single cat who stares at him with multi-colored eyes until he’s passed by.

He stops when he’s still about twenty feet away because Ian and Kash are out back, zipping up their jackets and looking around furtively like they’ve just done something shady - a drug deal perhaps - and for some reason it makes Mickey feel uncomfortable.

Kash looks pleased with himself and, to Mickey’s great surprise, leans over and gives Ian a chaste kiss on the lips. After, Ian follows him back into the store wordlessly and neither of them see him standing back there next to a reeking dumpster.

Mickey watches them go with a knot in his stomach, feeling the same way he does when he sees Mandy doing something stupid and wants to stop her. It’s disorienting. It’s not that Mickey doesn’t know there are other men - hell, boys, Ian is two years younger than him - with the exact same secret as him, but to see it like that, to see _Ian_ like that, makes his mind whirl trying to reconcile everything he knows about the boy with what he just saw.

He skips the Kash-and-Grab that day and heads home instead. By the time he gets back to his house, he’s already rationalized what he saw. They work together, Ian is young, Mickey can’t be sure what he actually saw - everything happened so fast - and it’s none of his business anyways.

_It’s none of Mickey’s business anyways._

What’s it got to do with him, if Gallagher’s a queer?

Ian hates him, anyways, for stealing from the store, and will often bitch about the stolen items if he’s there in a way the owner doesn’t dare. That’s okay, though. It’s okay because it’s better if Ian hates him; it’s better if they always sit in silence when they’re alone; it’s easier for Mickey to believe he can move past this and get his life back on track.

*-*-*

Because he’s gotten into the habit of visiting the Kash-and-Grab so often, Mickey isn’t really prepared, a few days after the strange incident in the alley, when the old fuck pulls a gun out from under the counter. He holds it towards Mickey’s face, tells him to put the stuff down, leave, and never come back. It’s not the first time someone’s pointed a gun at him though and when Mickey takes a step forward, the clerk doesn’t shoot, so that’s a good sign. It also doesn’t hurt that the guy is holding the gun out in front of him like the thing is radioactive.

Mickey reaches his hand out when he gets close enough and grabs the man’s wrist, twisting until the muzzle is pointed away from him. Another sharp twist and Kash gives a pained inhale before letting the gun drop to the counter with a clatter. Patience is a virtue, his mother had liked to say as she set the table for four growing boys and one timid, underfed girl. As little as he had listened to her back then, he thinks he does her proud today. He doesn’t shoot the clerk like he wants to, doesn’t jump across the counter after he’s down and kick him until blood runs out of his mouth as Mickey’s own father has done to him on several occasions. Just one crack across the clerk’s face and Mickey puts the gun in his waistband and takes the things he had been about to steal anyways.

Outside, blaring police sirens roar by to stop just one of the dozens of crimes going on in the city at that very moment, and Mickey’s goes unnoticed.

He takes his chips and ho-hos to the family car, loaned to him for one day only so he can pick up the recently-paroled head of the Milkovich family from downstate. The car starts like it isn’t sure it will be able too until the engine actually revs and the rumbles smooth out. There’s barely half a tank, but Iggy left a stolen credit card on the dash and told him to get at least twenty minutes out of the city before he uses it to fill up. And watch out for security cameras. And don’t touch his shit in the glove box. And don’t eat in the car unless he planned on cleaning it up. The last one is ridiculous. There are more crumbs, empty bottles, and burger wrappers in this car than there are in the Milkovich front yard, but he agreed to all of it before taking the keys just the same.

The drive downstate is the most relaxing time Mickey’s spent in a long while. He hasn’t had a lot of practice behind the wheel, but he spends most of the time in cruise control on the freeway anyways. One of the Milkovich’s has either robbed a radio shack or broken into a car on the street, because the old tape deck that had been in here the last time Mickey drove was now replaced with a shiny, chrome system too good for the car's shitty speakers. It starts blasting classic rap over satellite as soon as he clicks it on, and he leaves it like that, so loud he can feel the bass through the seat and floorboards, while he drives south.

Terry isn’t waiting outside the wire and chain link fence surrounding the prison when Mickey gets there which is fine by him. He’d rather wait in the loading/unloading area for a few hours than make his father wait for even a few minutes. The sight of the watchtowers and parked police cars are enough to convince him to turn the radio down, but he leaves the car on, afraid it might not start again if he turns it off. He watches the front gate, where armed figures in uniform walk by every so often, feeling both impatient for Terry to get out and anxious to see him when he does.

Fortunately for the car, rumbling in such a sickly way after idling so long Mickey’s just about to take his chances and give the thing a rest, Terry emerges from the gated entrance after forty minutes or so. A thought rises unbidden to the front of Mickey’s mind: driving away - not back home, not back to the Yards, just away - to Mexico, maybe, where the sun shines all year round and an industrious man like himself can make a living outside of the shadow of his father. He considers it for just a moment, then flashes the lights twice so Terry sees him. He walks over with a slump to his shoulders like he’s been carrying a chip of them so long it’s starting to affect him physically, and Mickey pretends that the sinking feeling in his gut is happiness or at least something on that side of good.

“Got any food?” His father asks as soon as he gets in the car as a hello, and Mickey reaches into the back seat where his box from the Kash-and-Grab sits and pulls out a can of Pringles, earning a grunt that may have been thanks.

There’s nothing to ask, nothing to say really, and they sit in silence while Terry eats the Pringles like a starving man, dropping crumbs on to the floor that will likely still be there when this beater is crushed in some scrap yard along with the rest of the trash. It’s at least an hour drive back home, and they pass most of it listening to the first loud mouthed shock-jock Terry finds on the satellite radio. They’re impatiently explaining how the colored man is using affirmative action to send their daughters to white schools to get pregnant with white babies, and Mickey hasn’t needed to meet the black people he has to know their families are just as likely to get pissed at a mixed-race baby as any white south-sider. He nods along, anyways, to keep the peace.

“Pull in here.” Terry says when they’re in the city again, less than ten minutes from the house, and Mickey turns into the parking lot he points to without a word. He wants to be home, but finds himself in front of a strip club – Rabbit Tales: Open 24/7, Have ID Ready - instead. He doesn’t have an ID, but the man sitting on a stool by the door reading a worn paperback doesn’t ask. Inside, the smell of beer and combined perfume of the women, some walking around and others dancing lazily for the few afternoon customers, mixes with the sticky floor pulling at his sneakers and the neon lights behind the bar, and gives Mickey flashbacks of his childhood. Back when Terry would carry him into places just like this and leave him in the booth while he went into the back rooms and did his ‘business’.

Today they take a seat at the bar, where the man tending it takes one look at the two of them and taps the sign next to the shelf of bottles: All Payment Upfront. Two beers, two shots, and the card Mickey used for the gas earlier clears. He knows it’s stupid to use it again, but there are no security cameras in here, and he doesn’t plan on sticking around long enough for there to be trouble. He pushes that worry down with the rest of his worries while he throws back the tequila and chases it with the beer. Terry pats him hard on the back when they both set their empty glasses on the bar at the same time, and then turns around to admire the view while Mickey holds his hand up for another drink.

He listens to his father mumble about the state of his sex life in prison for as long as he can. Listens to all his plans for the family now that he’s out. Listens to all of Terry’s troubles which all really boil down to money - mainly his lack of it. Finally, Terry’s had enough to drink and just waves Mickey off when he says he’s going to go to the store to get supplies for the coming home party. He leaves the keys and the credit card for his father, tries not to take the gulping breath of fresh air he wants to as soon as he’s back outside, and gets the box with the snacks and gun from the car.

Instead of getting supplies at the store, which Mandy has probably already taken care of, he takes the rest of his chips and ho-hos to a spot under the bridge where he can eat them in relative peace. Mickey has had his fill of people for the day, and doesn’t trust his distracted mind to come up with the right things to say to his family anyways.

He hides out and smokes under the bridge, and prays the passing roar of the train will take his muddled thoughts about fathers, sisters, and redheads with it.

*-*-*

Weed, caffeine, cigarettes. Mickey goes through everything he has on his person before finally deciding it’s time to wander home. The weed is making him feel light-headed, unburdened after days of being on edge, the comforting weight of his new gun tucked into the back of his jeans makes him want to be reckless. Reckless enough to walk right past his own house and keep going until he’s standing in an empty lot and staring at the side of a blue house he’s never thought twice about passing until about a week ago. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, and he’s nowhere near fucked up enough to admit he wants to catch Ian coming outside. That he could stop him and they could walk somewhere, go inside and just talk or-

“Mickey?” The familiar voice snaps him out of his daydreams. It’s Mandy, walking out of the Gallagher house and looking towards where he’s standing in the middle of an empty lot like an idiot. She wraps her arms around herself as she comes down the stairs, and goddamn would it kill Gallagher to buy her a new coat like the fancy one he’s been sporting? The one that brings out his hair like he’s just trying to get attention.

When Mandy gets closer, Mickey can see she looks agitated. She reaches out to touch his arm, but he shakes her off with a warning look.

“Just go home, Mickey. Ian didn’t take anything, and I put it all back. Anyways, he went to work for the night I guess.” She says it while walking backwards, away from the house, and he knows she’s trying to lead him away but makes no move to follow.

“What are you talking about?” He can hear his voice crack but hopes she doesn’t notice. The suicidal part of him wants her to say why he’s here. He wants to hear the words out loud so he can finally know it’s true and stop the endless tug of war going on inside him. Instead, she stands there with her eyes narrowed, like she’s trying to figure out how much he knows and not the other way around.

“Did you go home today?” She asks, still looking at him suspiciously. He tries but can’t guess why she would want to know.

“Not yet. Dropped dear old dad off at the strip club and then figured I’d make myself scarce for a few hours.”

“Oh.” She looks at him, then the blue house behind him, and for a moment Mickey thinks she’s going to keep asking questions. Instead, she puts her hands in her pockets and says, “Okay. Well, will you walk me home now?”

“Sure.”

They walk in silence at first, but Mandy can never keep it up for long. Soon, she’s telling him about some asshole teacher in school who isn’t letting her make up a test even though her period had been really bad that day and that was why she stayed home.

“Fuck school anyways,” He says, “What’s it going to do for us?”

“I guess. Some of us have dreams though.” Her voice sounds more resigned than hopeful. Mickey wants to say something encouraging, but nothing comes to mind. She continues as if she hadn’t expected him to reply anyways. “I’m not just going to pop out babies to give my alcoholic husband something to beat on like the other girls in this shit-hole. I’m getting out of this place. Me and Ian.”

Mickey scoffs. Not because he doesn’t think she could, if anyone in their family has a chance of getting out of here it’s Mandy, but because he hates the thought of living here without her. Knowing that she and Ian are off somewhere living the American dream while he hits up convenience stores and sells meth on the corner, paying kickbacks to Terry for the rest of his life. He scoffs because what she said hurts.

“It’s true!” She sounds playful now, dreaming of her perfect house with her gorgeous boyfriend when they finally make it to the good life.

_Does she know about Kash? Or has Ian been lying to her too?_

Mickey feels his artificial good mood from the weed start to fade.

“Ian will take me out of here,” She says, “And I’ll never have to worry about him cheating on me or getting me pregnant. We’re going to be happy together.”

Maybe she does know after all. Mickey feels a desperate desire to know what she thinks about it if she does, but they’ve reached the house and there’s no time to follow up. They stand outside it with matching looks on their faces neither of them notice. In the dark, with a light drizzle just starting to fall, Mickey wants to pretend that the soiled furniture, empty bottles, and sagging ‘welcome home’ banner belong to someone else’s life.

Mandy breaks the silence first, like always, with a sigh and says, “Here we go again,” before walking up the steps. Mickey follows her with a sigh of his own.

They stay up half the night celebrating. Most of the family - siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews - have shown up, and Terry’s in a good mood. It’s past three by the time everyone leaves, and Mickey stumbles to bed without bothering to take his clothes off.

Wasted or not, he dreams.

He’s in the car with his father, watching the road drift by through the windshield. He can tell the car is out of control, but doesn’t know how to stop it. The brake pedal isn’t responding and his father is yelling at him to put it right, get the damn thing back on the road, but the wheel is stuck and nothing he’s doing is making it better. His father reaches over to strangle him and Mickey can’t even try to defend himself because he has to keep his hands on the wheel before things get even worse. Because he knows he can get the car back on the blacktop if he just keeps trying, and then everything will go back to being alright.

Even though it all happens in his subconscious, the distress Mickey feels is real, but Before his father can kill him - or the car can crash - the chaotic scene fades away. Fortunately for the overstressed teen, he sleeps on until his dreams lose their definition, become abstract ideas. By the time a tire iron prods Mickey awake, he’s already forgotten all about them.

*-*-*

Waking up is unpleasant. He still feels buzzed from the night before, the ghost of the tire iron’s pressure is making his shoulder tingle, and for some reason Gallagher is in his room. There’s something comforting about seeing the other boy, even though Ian is angry, armed, and acting like he wants to start something before Mickey’s had his first cigarette of the day.

It’s the gun from the store. Ian wants it back, doesn’t know Mickey’s tucked it safely away in the dresser by the door, and it doesn’t seem likely he’s going to leave without it.

Mickey realizes he’s probably going to have to kick Gallagher’s ass after all.

Mindful of the tire iron, he takes advantage of the fact Ian is more interested in getting the gun back than he is in fighting, and leans over like he’s going to pick something up. Ian lets his guard down, gives Mickey an opening, but the redhead is a lot stronger than he looks.

Mickey doesn’t go soft on him, and Ian doesn’t give him any room to. There’s something about the way Ian fights, like he knows just the right moves to grab, or counter punches, and for a few uncomfortable seconds it puts Mickey on the defensive. Then, Ian manages to toss him into his own damn couch. If Mickey had been messing around before, he isn’t now.

They’re making a racket, but no one comes to check just like he hadn’t checked when he heard Mandy crying. Mickey eventually manages to pin Ian down even though it takes twice as long as it should have given the boy’s size. By the time he does, he’s so focused on getting the upper hand for a moment they both think he’s going to bring the iron down on the other boy’s head. It’s just a moment of instinct, and then he remembers who he’s fighting. It’s only Ian. Just Ian looking up at him with nothing visible except his eyes and freckles and, oh god, that hair.

Mickey’s never thought to ask, but if he had, Terry Milkovich probably could have told his son that yes, fighting and fucking are pretty damn close to the same thing. It’s a lesson he’s about to learn for himself though. The tender spots where Ian’s fists have connected aren’t hurting anymore and, instead, they feel kind of good: good in the same way Ian breathing heavily against his thigh is feeling good.

With all the fervor of the fight, Mickey now wants to do something completely different. Below him, Ian’s looking up like he might be having the exact same idea.

Mickey starts pulling off his shirt and lets the other boy off the bed to do the same. For a moment, he thinks he’s misjudged the situation and Ian is going to bolt after all. Only a moment, then he’s also pulling at his clothes and Mickey’s hands are right there helping him. He wants Ian now, before the last bit of sleep leaves him, and before anyone else can make a noise outside his door and remind him how unbelievably stupid he’s being doing this in his own fucking house. By the time they’re both naked – him on the bed, and Ian in the middle of the room looking like he’s stepped straight out of Mickey’s imagination – he couldn’t care less about anything that isn’t this.

He takes a few extra seconds to himself just to stare, not saying anything, and it should be awkward except Ian doesn’t seem to mind; maybe he’s used to being admired. Eventually, Mickey has to stop staring, feels an urge too strong to ignore, and he reaches over to open the drawer of his nightstand instead. From between the Guns & Ammo magazines, zig-zag packets, lighters and cigarette packs, he pulls out a mostly full box of condoms and a half-empty bottle of lube. When he sits back, Ian is holding his hand out like he expects Mickey to hand the stuff over.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, Gallagher?”

“What? I’m always the one who does the…you know.” He raises his eyebrows and yes, Mickey does know.

“Not with me you aren’t.” He says angrily.

None of his male partners have ever even offered before, but now Ian is looking at him like he might be reconsidering this whole thing - like he might leave right now if Mickey doesn’t agree to bend over for him.

“Don’t worry about it. I know what I’m doing.” Ian says.

It’s tempting, too tempting, and Ian looks so good naked and flushed, standing in the soft light bleeding through the curtains into the room.

“You can’t be serious. This won’t even fit you.” Mickey says, holding up the condom.

“What, you don’t keep a magnum in your pocket to trick some poor girl like every other guy?” Ian teases.

“Fuck you. My dick’s just fine.”

Of all the things he thought he’d be doing this morning, admitting that Ian Gallagher would tear through any condom that he would own is not one of them.

“It’s perfect,” Ian says. “And it’s alright, I have my own.” He digs his wallet out of his pants on the floor, and Mickey feels the one in his own hand drop to the floor.

“Yeah, fine. Whatever then. Just get over here.” He says, even though his heart is racing, “My dick’s getting soft.”

“No, it isn’t.” Ian teases him again while he puts his hands on Mickey’s chest and pushes him down towards the mattress. Not hard enough to force him, but he sinks down onto the bed just the same, rolling onto his stomach while Ian pulls his hips up.

There’s another strange, quiet moment between them. This time it’s Ian running his hands up Mickey’s thighs. Touching him firm enough not to tickle and soft enough not to hurt. It’s making his dick throb and sending warm heat up through his lower stomach, but he’s also struck by what he isn’t feeling. There’s no sick, twisty feeling in his gut when Ian touches him. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t feel like pulling away when someone made contact with him, and it’s a heavy relief not to feel it now. So much so, he doesn’t think to put a stop to all of this when Ian nudges his legs apart, he doesn’t pull away even when Ian’s hands make their way to his butt, and can’t find it in himself to protest when Ian slides one long, slick finger inside him without warning.

It’s amazing, the kind of thing he’s only ever dreamed about, but he doesn’t let himself make any sound. He wants to, wants to rock backwards on Ian’s finger when he pulls it out, and, even worse, wants to ask him for more when he pushes back in. He manages to control himself. Manages to stay still and quiet, and lets Ian - who does seem to know what he’s doing - take the lead.

Mickey’s resting his weight on his elbows, head pushing down into his pillow, but there’s little space in his mind to consider what he must look like. Especially when Ian adds a second finger and curls them both, and Mickey can’t stop himself this time from making a strangled sound into the pillow. Maybe he also pushes his hips back a little, but who can blame him when Gallagher is currently doing the most obscene thing that’s ever been done to Mickey and shows no signs of stopping.

It’s easy to lose track of time - easy to imagine they’re the only two people in the world when all Mickey can think about is the way he feels right now - but eventually Ian pulls his fingers away and wipes them off on the sheets of the bed. Mickey’s still coming to terms with what’s about to happen when he hears the sound of the condom packet being opened and latex unravelling.

Then, Ian uses both hands to spread Mickey’s cheeks and spits.

“Fuck you! Use the lube.”

“Sorry.” Ian says, but he doesn’t sound sorry. “You look so fucking hot right now.”

Mickey doesn’t know how to answer that, and it doesn’t matter because Ian’s lining himself up. If Mickey’s going to make him stop, now would be the time, but he’s pretty sure he doesn't want to. Can’t remember ever being this turned on before. He forgets where they are as Ian pushes into him, forgets to breathe, forgets all the reasons they definitely shouldn’t be doing this. All of it’s lost in the way Ian’s stretching him, filling him, and there’s still so much more to go.

“Mickey, are you alright?”

“Mmph.” He says into the pillow. He lifts his head, though, and takes a breath. He can’t say anything else, but Ian keeps going, pressing forward while his hand holds Mickey’s hips in place.

“Just tell me if…oh fuck.” Ian starts, but his words fall off before he can finish.

Mickey doesn’t mean to do it, but he spreads his legs just a little more, pushes his hips back because he can’t help himself, and Ian’s cock slides further in before either of them are prepared for it. After that, Mickey can feel Ian’s hips pressed against his ass. He’s completely full and his mouth is hanging open against the pillow making more of those gasping whimpers.

Mickey is beginning to to think he’s never going to get over this fuck. He’s never felt this good before. Already, his hands are twisting into the sheets and his feet are digging into the mattress because oh god, he’s going to come soon, and they’ve barely even started yet. Ian isn’t even moving, but Mickey is already at his limit with just what they’ve done so far.

Ian leans over him until his chest is pressed against Mickey’s back, and he’s grateful for the extra weight on his forearms because it’s the only thing keeping him from grabbing his dick and finishing right now like some fucking virgin. Gallagher’s oblivious to his plight though. He starts rocking his hips rhythmically, pulling out just enough and then pushing back in like he doesn’t give a damn how hard all of this is rocking Mickey’s world.

“Oh god Mick, you have no idea how good this feels.” He sounds breathless, and Mickey almost can’t hear him above the sounds the mattress is making as it rocks on its metal frame, almost wishes he hadn’t heard because those words only bring his creeping orgasm closer. If anything, it’s Ian who has no idea.

When Ian’s hand comes down and wraps around his dick, he thrusts his hips forward into the feeling and he throws off their steady rhythm, but is already too far gone to care. He tries to stay quiet when he cums, even as Ian picks up speed and just says Mickey’s name breathlessly over and over again, but there’s only so much he can do to cut off his own desperate moans. When the last spasm is gone and Mickey’s completely spent, Ian wipes his hand on the sheets again and curls it around Mickey’s shoulder to hold him in place as his hips continued to thrust forward making the whole bed rattle. It should be demeaning, getting used like this, but after everything else they’ve done, Mickey isn’t too surprised to find he doesn’t mind.

Ian’s really pounding into him now, breathing in soft, sharp gasps, and Mickey can’t help himself, has to reach back and try to get him to slow down because it’s just so much. “I’m sorry…fuck…so close.”

Ian takes his hand and pins it back down against the bed, just as his hips give a final thrust pushing them both closer to the mattress. He’s so much quieter when he finishes than Mickey, nothing but a few soft grunts and the hand on his shoulder tightening until it’s painful.

When Ian's done, they both stay still and quiet for half a minute, letting their breath even out, and Mickey’s brain finally had space to consider the insanity of what they’ve just done. They must have been making so much noise.

Ian pulls out with a final groan, and takes off the condom while Mickey falls forward and rolls on to his back just in time to see it get tossed into an already full wastebasket by the couch. That done, Ian leans back next to Mickey, and the tire iron, which somehow made it through everything else they just did, is jostled by the movement and falls to the floor.

Very faintly, the sound of Terry’s voice comes through the door, “Are you the one making all that noise? I’m trying to sleep.”

There’s barely enough time to pull the blanket up from where it’s been kicked to the bottom of the bed, to cover up how completely butt-naked they are, before Terry is walking through the door.

At the age of ten, Mickey had been convinced by his brothers to climb on to the roof of the house and retrieve a stuck baseball. What he had felt then, his feet unsteady on the rusted ladder and the horrible feeling like a lead weight on his chest from being so high, was the closest he’s ever got in his life to feeling this scared.

Terry walks past them, lumbering like a bear, his footsteps just heavy enough to be felt through the bed as he gets closer. He’s clumsy with sleep and walks straight to the bathroom without stopping, but Mickey’s entire body feels frozen as he watches him walk by. He can’t make himself get up and grab the gun from where he stashed it in his dresser even though he thinks maybe he should, and he finds himself wondering if the boy next to him is as trashy as his name suggests because he’s probably going to have to run back home, completely naked, if he wants to get out of this with his face intact.

Terry comes back out of the bathroom with a lit cigarette and Mickey has no idea what to expect, but he stays as still as possible and doesn’t make eye contact. He can smell alcohol even from the bed, as though his father had taken a dip in it instead of drinking it, and neither he nor Ian has anything to say about Mandy, safe in the kitchen at least, making eggs. So they stay silent and wait. Mickey hasn’t taken breath since his father came in, and, even though his lungs are burning again, he can’t make himself take one now.

“Put some clothes on. You look like a couple of faggots.”

*-*-*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of season 1 from Mickey's point of view.

Season 1; Chapter 2:

Mickey feels like he’s spinning, or at least like he’s just stopped spinning and is still experiencing the rush of it, while he watches Ian pull his pants on. He’s breathing steadily again, at least, and the feeling, equal parts shock and euphoria, starts to wear off as he pulls his own clothes on. The smell of breakfast is already wafting through his half-open door. 

And then there’s Ian. Skin so delicate, the bruises from their fight are already forming on him, and if Mickey looks too long, he might not ever be able to stop. He’s already almost died once today for the chance to touch him, there’s no point pushing it. 

He gives the gun back. Partly because Ian wants it and partly because he’s afraid the other boy won’t leave until he gets it, but kissing is out of the question; he doesn’t let himself think about stuff like that. The day Mickey kisses another man is the day he accepts he’s a fag and leaves any chance of a normal life behind. It’ll never happen. They did what they did and there’s no changing that now, but how many more warnings does life need to give him before he finally stops pushing his luck?

He can’t stop though. The whole day goes by, and every few minutes he tells himself he’ll stop thinking about Ian...in just another few minutes. The first twenty or so he spends at the table eating Mandy’s soggy eggs, and he just waits for Terry to sober up, to realize what he’s seen his son doing and lose his shit, but the only one who brings it up is Mandy. She just says a quick thank you to him for ‘helping Ian out with his problem.’ Mickey, mouth full of eggs, doesn’t bother to reply because he can feel hysterical laughter in his throat threatening to come out. 

*-*-*

With Terry home now, everything is worse. Mickey actually goes to most of his classes for the rest of the week, and detention too, and Mandy doesn’t bring her ‘boyfriend’ around anymore. If only she had kept him away from the start, but, for Mickey, the damage is already done. If his mind had been distracted before, it’s now barely functional. Wednesday morning, he stands staring at his dresser for the better part of ten minutes because he’s supposed to be getting a shirt, but instead his mind gets stuck remembering how Ian had looked, naked and in his room. The only thing Mickey wants is to go back in time and live those moments over and over again. Fuck the rest of his life. The best thing that was ever going to happen to him already had, and he barely even had a chance to enjoy it. 

On Thursday after school, two days since Gallagher redefined the idea of sex for him, Mickey comes to the conclusion that everything he wants in life is impossible. He sits in the back of class, staring out the window and not even pretending to take the test in front of him, and briefly flirts with the idea of suicide. He isn’t sad or depressed or whatever. He just wants something he can’t have, will never be able to have, and is having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that he still has so much life left to live without it. 

Two days after that, he takes one of the shotguns out of the closet, the one with a short barrel Iggy took off a meth-head a few years ago, and makes sure it’s loaded. He sits with it on his bed, like a retired cowboy might sit on the porch protecting his homestead, and just thinks for a while. It never crosses his mind that he could use it on Terry instead. As far as he’s concerned, it’s not just his father but everyone in this city who would be out for his head if they knew. It’s almost comforting, thinking it could all be over in an instant, but eventually he puts it back in the closet and gets himself a beer from the fridge instead. 

He has nowhere to be today, but no one else in the house seems to have that problem. The place sits quiet except for the occasional rattle of the train, and, from the kitchen, the steady tone of the house phone. It’s dangling on its cord, hanging against the wall a few feet below the cradle, and Mickey thinks he’s getting real fucking tired of living with a bunch of animals as he hangs it back up. 

Next to it is an ancient notepad his mother had hung up in better days. Most of its papers - decorated with what he thinks are cartoon squirrels holding a birthday party - have long since been torn off, but the one on top must have been here for awhile because it’s covered in writing. Pen, pencil, even some crayon, and the oldest jots are starting to fade under the kitchen light. Mandy’s handwriting stands out both because of it’s neatness compared to the other scrawls and the glittery pen she’s used. She’s put hearts around Ian’s name and the two sets of numbers below it, and once again Mickey finds himself wondering if she knows her ‘boyfriend’ might be out there cruising for boyfriends of his own right now. 

He looks at the phone, cracking open the beer and drinking it in large gulps until the cold makes his head hurt. When he finishes, he throws the can towards the sink where it lands with a clatter and grabs another one from the fridge, but still doesn’t leave the kitchen. The top number under Ian’s name has the same area code as the Milkovich phone and must be the Gallagher household, where any number of people could answer if he called, but the lower one starts with an 800 and Mickey knows it will go to the Kash-and-Grab where there’s a 50/50 chance Ian will answer.

It’s as close to an epiphany as Mickey’s ever experienced, realizing he’d rather call Ian and hear his voice than anything else he could possibly do today; more than he wants to drink this beer; more than he wants to hold that shotgun; more than he wants to crawl back into bed and sleep the rest of the day away. He takes the phone off the cradle and listens to the dial-tone then hangs it back up, looks at the numbers on the pad again, picks up the phone, and dials the number before he can change his mind. He figures towelhead will probably answer anyway and he can just hang up, but it barely gets through the first ring before Ian’s bored voice comes through.

“Kash-and-Grab.” 

Mickey breathes once, twice, realizes Ian will probably hang up if he doesn’t say anything, and says, “Hey.”

“Hi…who is this?” So fucking polite, and there’s no reason life shouldn’t have beaten that out of him already, especially with that pisswad Frank as a father. 

“It’s me, dickhead. Mickey.” 

“Mickey, why are you calling? Is this about the gun?” 

It’s annoying Ian can’t think of any other reason he might be calling, and he almost hangs up, but hearing the voice on the other end of the line has awakened all the memories of the other day with a vengeance. So, instead he says:

“No it’s not about the gun. Listen, are you alone?”

“I’m the only one working until noon, yeah. Then I’ll be off at four.” Ian says it without the slightest hint of suspicion, like there’s no reason he shouldn’t tell Mickey he's alone in the store for hours and what time he’ll be heading home. 

It’s enough to make a guy’s heart flutter. Not Mickey’s, but some guy’s probably. 

“Okay. I’m going to come over then.” He waits to hang up, wants to hear some sort of confirmation before he treks his ass in the cold through half the neighborhood only to find out they’re not on the same page as to why he’s coming. 

“Yeah, okay.” It’s difficult to tell over the crackling phone line, but he thinks he can hear a little excitement in Ian’s voice. It’s enough for him and he hangs up without another word.

*-*-*

He finishes his beer on the way there and throws it into the gutter before he’s gotten a hundred feet from his house, but he’s feeling a buzz that has nothing to do with that as he walks up the curb and through the door of the convenience store. There's a tight knot of excitement growing in his chest as Ian locks the front door and leads him, not into the back office, but into the stock-room cooler where the air is chilled and smells faintly of the plastic crates stacked everywhere. If there’s an order to it, Mickey can’t tell, but Ian seems to know what he’s doing and he presses both of them against a metal shelf that feels like it will support their weight. The chill of the room disappears as their bodies press together, but Mickey still turns his head to the side to avoid any ideas about kissing, and Ian settles with pressing his nose just under Mickey’s ear and inhaling as though he likes the scent of dirty clothes on a boy who isn’t sure when the last time he showered was. 

Just this feels amazing, pressed so close it’s they’re practically hugging, but they don’t stop to enjoy it. After days of staying away from each other, there’s barely a drop of patience between them. Like their first time, Mickey tries to take charge: puts his hands between them and grabs for the other boy's belt buckle. Like their first time, Ian doesn’t let him. He takes Mickey by the hips and turns him around, pressing him against the cold shelf, then grabs his hands and repositions them until Mickey is holding on to the metal bars holding the shelf up. He keeps them there, despite how the cold metal makes his fingers tingle, even when Ian pulls his own away. 

It should make him uncomfortable, his back turned on the only other person in the room and his arms spread away from his body, but nothing is the same with Ian. It’s so much better than anything else he’s experienced, there’s nothing to compare it to. Still, the shelf is like ice under his hands, and after nothing happens for a few seconds, he snaps:

“Hurry the fuck up, Gallagher.”

“Yeah, okay.” Ian says and there’s a slight shiver in his voice that both boys can hear. He puts the lube, still with its purple sticker showing an outrageously marked up convenience store price, on the shelf next to the orange juice and milk cartons. The box with the rest of the condoms falls to the floor between them, and Mickey kicks it behind a nearby crate. 

Cold fingers find the buttons on Mickey’s jeans and undo them, but instead of pulling them down, Ian slips his hands inside and runs it along Mickey’s hipbone, bypassing his erection all together to give his balls a gentle squeeze. His other hand follows Mickey’s jacket from the zipper to his upper chest, lingering for a moment at his armpit in a ticklish way that makes his dick twitch against Ian’s other hand where it’s still massaging his balls. 

“Seriously, Gallagher, just do it.” 

Ian takes his hands away with a regretful sigh and pulls both their pants down just enough. Now Mickey can feel Ian’s hard cock pressing against his ass, and the chill of the store room is nothing compared to what Ian’s lubed up fingers feel like pressing into him forcing a feline hiss from between his clenched teeth. 

“Oh shit. Did that hurt?” Ian asks in a whisper because the silence is so thick in here behind the reinforced door, it almost feels wrong to disturb it. 

“No. It’s just fucking cold.” Then, after a pause, he adds, “Don’t stop.”

Ian doesn’t, just keeps fingering him while his other hand goes up and finds Mickey’s on the shelf, wraps around it, and holds them both there. Mickey lets his eyes close and his head fall forward as the hum of the air conditioning mixes with the sounds Ian’s slicked up fingers are making. He knows in his heart he’ll never be able to walk away from this. Not even after years of telling himself being attracted to other guys is just a phase he’ll grow out of. Ian isn’t a vice; he isn’t cigarettes or weed or any of the other guys Mickey has fucked. He’s more than just a passing craving. 

He’s also, he thinks, as Ian pulls his fingers out and wipes them on Mickey’s sweater, a fabulously sloppy fuck. They have to hurry, sure, but that alone can’t excuse the misuse of his sweater, or the low plop he hears as a handful of lube falls on to the floor instead of wherever it was intended for, or the condom wrapper that drops right next to it, and Ian doesn’t seem to care at all that he’s the one who will have to clean the room up when this is done. 

They keep their hands wrapped together on the shelf pole, and Ian uses his free one to line his dick up until he’s far enough inside and then it goes back to Mickey’s hips. The pressure of Ian pushing inside him makes Mickey’s toes curl, and they can both hear the soft squeak of his sneakers as they slip against the concrete floor. He’s focused on the place where their hands meet though, and the way Ian’s forehead is pressing against the back of his neck and the soft sounds they both make as they feel all of this together. Ian’s free hand moves forward to wrap around Mickey’s dick and starts stroking slowly. He keeps adjusting his grip, tight around the base then loose at the middle and tight again at the tip, and Mickey doesn’t know if he’s just distracted or doing it on purpose, but it’s driving him crazy in the best sort of way. Makes him want to push back on Ian’s body until there’s no space between them at all.

Some distant, more rational, part of his mind is thinking about the first time, telling himself this is too much, he can’t possibly take all of Ian again, but it’s not a part he’s listening to right now. He uses the shelf to pull himself up on his tiptoes, and Ian uses the new difference in height to push the rest of the way in. At the same time his hand on Mickey’s dick gives another firm squeeze, and yeah, he’s definitely doing that on purpose. 

Something about the close space of the storage room makes every pant and moan seem that much louder, and eventually they’re joined by the rattling shake of the metal shelf as Mickey’s body adjusts and Ian’s hips start moving faster. It’s obviously getting difficult for Ian to fuck him and jerk him off at the same time, so Mickey brings the hand not being held in place off the shelf and covers Ian’s so they can stroke him together. From behind him, the other boy lets out a low, “fuck yes” and dammit, that’s the first time he’s sounded as turned on as Mickey feels. His only excuse is that nothing in life has prepared him for how good getting fucked in the ass feels, and, as soon as the rest of him catches up with that, he’s going to blow Ian’s mind.

He’s back on his tiptoes again after a brief rest when Ian pulls out of him so slowly it feels like the world stops while he stands there, completely still, with just the tip of his dick still inside. Mickey only means to exhale the breath he’s been holding in, but what comes out instead sounds exactly like a whimper. A shaky, pitiful sound that would have been mortifying on its own, but is so much more so when Ian asks,

“Oh yeah? You like that?”

“Don’t, Gallagher.” He has to force the words out between pants because now Ian’s doing it again: pushing in deep enough to pull Mickey’s heels back off the ground, and then pulling out again, so slowly. “Don’t fuck with me.” 

“I’m not.” Ian says, sounding as wrecked as Mickey feels. “I want to make you feel good.” 

He could probably come up with a sarcastic reply to that given enough time but, before he can, Ian’s dick slides all the way out and, without pause, pushes back in, stretching Mickey back out so suddenly, it makes him moan loud enough it seems to echo around the small space.

His orgasm, a much less present feeling just seconds ago, now seems very close and his hips start moving of their own accord. Forward, into their hands wrapped around his dick, and then backwards to meet Ian’s hips. At least, that’s the intention.

“Mickey, Jesus, stop moving. You’re throwing us off.” It’s true, Ian’s much better at keeping a steady pace when he’s the one doing the thrusting, but Mickey doesn’t listen. He can already tell there’s a power imbalance in their relationship and he’s not sure he likes which side of it he’s on. 

“Can’t,” He says, and sure enough he pushes forward into their hands at the same time the other boy pulls back and Ian’s dick slips out, unintentionally this time. He still feels close, but now he has to wait for Ian to get situated again. 

“Just try.” Ian says, tightening the hand holding Mickey’s against the shelf until it’s painful, but Mickey shakes his head.

“No. Fuck, I’m so close.” He says, willing Ian to start thrusting again.

“Me too, Mick, please.” 

And now Mickey’s apparently whatever the gay version of pussy-whipped is, because he does stop trying to control the pace and lets Ian do it instead until they’ve gotten back to at least an approximation of their earlier rhythm. He keeps control of the hands on his dick though, and makes them stroke faster and rougher until he really is going to come. Ian is grinding into him relentlessly now, knocking them both against the shelf like he’s trying to make up for lost time, and he’s saying Mickey’s name again like it’s turning him on just to say it. Like it will turn Mickey on just to hear it while his orgasm builds in a way that makes him feel delirious. 

To the left of his head, an orange juice carton falls off the shelf and splatters against the floor, splashing cold juice over the tops of his socks. Maybe it’s that, or maybe it would have happened then anyways, but Mickey finally moans and climaxes with an intensity that makes his whole body clench. There’s no time to rest or adjust, behind him Ian pushes his head between Mickey’s shoulder blades and starts thrusting at a frantic pace. He frees his hand and wipes it on Mickey’s sweater again in that careless way. Then, grabs Mickey’s hips with it roughly and holds them still so he can pound into him harder.

The hand still holding his on the metal rod, clenches tightly again, and Ian lets out a low, dirty moan of his own right next to Mickey’s ear as he comes inside him. 

Almost the second it’s over, Mickey wants to do it again, but when Ian pulls out and catches his breath, he looks past the cooler doors and says, “Fuck, how long was that? I have to open the store.”

So instead of going again, they pull up their pants being careful to step over the mess on the floor. The rest of the store feels warm compared to where they were, and Mickey can’t help the new wave of arousal he feels watching Ian tie on his apron and unlock the door, It’s definitely sexy the way Gallagher earns his money through an actual job. 

When he goes to leave, Ian follows him out the door like a puppy.

“So that was like, a booty call?”

Mickey doesn’t justify that with an answer. Booty calls are what straight guys do with ghetto whores, and then brag about loudly in the school hallways as though any guy couldn’t get his dick wet if he wanted. He and Ian can’t have booty calls because they can’t brag, can’t take even a few minutes to privately bask in the glory of what they’ve just done. Ian is looking so happy at the prospect though, smiling with his hair all mussed up, and Mickey leaves before he can find any more reasons to stay.

*-*-*

He thinks about going home, but then remembers holding that shotgun and decides it might be better to spend a few hours walking around instead. After being with Ian, he feels energized enough to work himself. Fire crotch isn’t the only one who can earn around here. 

Most of the best corners to deal from have been taken over by black kids from the neighborhood who have the backing of real city gangs, but he still knows some local growers who will give him the weed on credit. 

One of them, a Nazi ‘enthusiast’ in his mid-thirties who can out-rant even Terry when it involves the white man’s natural right to rule the world, lives near here. He always gives Mickey a free sample of the weed too, so long as he smokes it next to him on the couch, usually watching war documentaries, always in black and white, and nods along. 

The guy lives in the basement of a house a block south of the Milkovich’s, not too far from the group home Mickey spent a year in as a child, and he finds it again no problem. The basement door has been replaced at some point with a plywood board someone has sprayed Condemned; Do Not Enter on in black spray paint. But when Mickey raps his knuckles against it, the same haggard face and nicotine-stained mustache he recognizes from their earlier dealings pokes out and looks at him suspiciously. 

“Mikey Milkovich?”

“Mickey, yeah. We did some work together before.” 

“I remember. Terry’s kid.”

“Yep. Got anything for me today?”

The guy - Nick…something, Mickey thinks - scoots the plywood to the side and lets him in. The doorway opens up to a landing on a set of concrete stairs that lead down into a living area. It doesn’t look like anything’s changed at all since the last time he saw it. A ratty, beige tartan couch faces a large television that’s been stuck on top a few stacked pallets. Next to it is an expensive speaker system and new Xbox that weren’t here before. But the dirty wet-bar in the corner with boxes of Milwaukee Brew stacked next to a few empty liquor bottles is familiar, along with the colorful posters taped to the exposed concrete walls that look foreign and frightening in their intensity. There’s no windows, and the air smells like fresh weed and stale body odor. 

Five minutes later, Mickey is on the couch smoking and trying to look interested while Nick shows off a new purchase, an AK with a bump stock. It’s something that would normally draw his attention, but he isn’t much in the mood for guns today. The weed is good though, and after a few drags he doesn’t mind Nick so much anymore. So, he listens and nods and when his joint is finished, Nick pulls out two ounces, loose and fresh, and individually wrapped in plastic bags that are held together with two thick strips of electrical tape. 

“Alright, you and me are tight,” Nick says. It’s a gross overstatement, but Mickey doesn’t correct him. “So I’ll give it to you today, but I expect a hundred bucks each in a few days.” 

“A hundred? You’re shitting me. I’ll give you seventy-five. I gotta make money on this too.” 

“Fuck you Milkovich, I don’t need to bargain with you.” 

“Okay, now I’ll give you fifty.” 

He ignores the way Nick adjusts his new gun on its shoulder strap. The more expensive the gun, the less likely a man is to shoot you with it. Mickey can’t remember which one of his relatives had told him that, but as a general rule, it’s never failed him. 

“Maybe you can get some other tool to sell your shit weed.” He continues, making like he’s going to toss the packages back on the couch. “Or, I can get you seventy-five tomorrow.”

“One-fifty.”

“What?”

“Seventy-five each is one-fifty.” 

“Fine. One-fifty, in cash. Tomorrow.” It’s a good deal for him, and not a rip-off for Nick either. They shake tersely, Mickey tucks the weed into his waistband, pulls his sweater over it, and leaves before he and Nick can find anything else to argue about. 

Heading home, he stops to get a soda with the few quarters and a nickel he found in his pants pockets, and he’s happy to find he’s still in a pretty damn good mood by the time he opens the metal gate to his yard. 

Even better, as though the world has picked today to cut him a big, cosmic break, Ian is in his house, playing video games with Mandy, when he gets inside. He lets out a burp because he likes the way it makes Mandy frown - an old joke between them that only he still finds funny - and asks ‘sup, faggots?’ without a hint of irony.

He goes to his room, planning on stashing the weed in his jacket under the bed and going back out to sit next to Ian for as long as life will let him, but when he puts the mattress back in place and stands up, Ian’s already coming into the room and closing the door behind him. 

“All done working already, Gallagher, or did they finally wise up and fire your ass?”

“Lunch break.” Ian says with a shrug. “I was hoping I’d see you.” 

He’s looking at Mickey like he wants to try for round two - a crazy idea after they were almost discovered last time they fucked here - and Mickey wants to shut that shit down before Ian gets the chance to convince him. He pushes them both towards the door, but before he can reach the knob, Ian is grabbing his wrists, shushing Mickey even as they struggle, and pushing them back towards the bed. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Mickey asks quietly, but somehow he’s already lost because Ian’s pressing their noses together and telling him it’ll be quick, and they’ll be so quiet, while his hands grab at Mickey’s shirt and run along his chest. Then, as if there was any question of him getting exactly what he wanted, Ian sinks down to his knees in front of Mickey and starts unbuttoning his jeans. 

“Jesus, fire crotch.” He says, but he doesn’t know how to finish that thought, and Ian is looking up at him through his messy bangs smiling, and there’s nothing left to say because Mickey is too busy ruining his own life. 

Ian tugs his pants down for the second time today and palms Mickey through his boxers still looking up through his lashes and his hair. 

“You ever given a blowjob before?” Mickey asks because he’s curious, and Ian laughs like he’s told a good joke. 

“Once or twice,” He says, but something about the way he says it makes Mickey think of Kash kissing Ian on the lips. “Have you?”

“Do I look like I give fucking blowjobs?” 

It’s rhetorical, but Ian rolls his eyes like he can see right through Mickey while he pulls his boxers down to join the pants puddled around his feet. 

The mattress is pressing against the back of his legs and there’s nothing to lean back against but open air, so Mickey leans forward a little instead and runs his hands through Ian’s hair. Still the other boy ignores his cock to press kisses against his inner thigh, up his balls, and then one on his messy patch of pubic hair. When he moves in to press a chaste one to his dick, Mickey clenches his fist and tugs Ian’s hair roughly.

“Get on with it, or get the fuck out.” He says, and it’s supposed to be intimidating, but Gallagher just looks at him and licks his lips and says okay. 

Mickey watches Ian as he uses his tongue to lick his cock before taking the head into his mouth and teasing it gently. 

“Mmph.” He says, or something very like it, as Ian wraps his hand around the base and holds it while his mouth continues working the tip, sliding it in and out slowly. He loosens his grip on Ian’s hair to give him more room to maneuver. There’s no sound in the room except the occasional sloppy ones Ian’s mouth makes pulling off his dick as he comes up for air, and Mickey’s own sharp gasps. 

At one point, Ian pulls away and sucks on his own pointer finger, holding eye contact as he slides it between Mickey’s cheeks and circles it teasingly around his hole. He takes Mickey’s dick, slick with saliva and so hard at this point he feels like it’s making him light-headed, into his mouth again, but this time he takes it all the way into the back of his throat at the same time he slides his finger into Mickey.

The older boy brings his free hand up to cover his mouth, but can’t completely muffle the sound he makes. He feels helpless watching Ian’s nose pressing against his pubic hair and feeling the finger in his ass curl like Ian is beckoning him. He’s trying to keep his balance, trying to stay quiet, and trying very hard not to fuck Ian’s face, but it’s a lot to take in. Especially when Ian starts blowing him with purpose, bobbing his head up and down mindless of the way Mickey’s hand pulls at his hair, and using his tongue to press Mickey’s dick to the roof of his mouth each time he goes down. 

“Oh fuck.” He says, instead of I’m going to cum, when he feels the familiar warm feeling running up his legs and making his balls tighten. He pulls Ian’s head back before he can, and Mickey’s other hand goes to his dick instinctively jerking it as the thought of what he’s about to do pushes him over the edge. 

He finishes on Ian’s cheeks, his chin, and a little dribbles down his neck, and Mickey tries to keep his eyes open the whole time, but it’s a losing battle. He opens them just as Ian is wiping his hands on the back of his jeans and catches him licking his lips again. 

Mickey helps him to his feet and passes him a - mostly - clean shirt from the floor watching greedily as Ian uses it to wipe the mess off his face and neck. 

“Thanks,” He says, tossing the shirt back on the floor, and adjusting his pants so Mickey gets a clear view of his dick trapped in them, hard and pressing against the zipper.

“Do you want me to...?” Mickey gestures at the other boy’s crotch, and a surprised look passes across Ian’s face, but he readjusts his pants again, tucks his boner into his waistband so it’s no longer so visible, and shakes his head. 

“No, I have to get back out there. You can just owe me one.”

He leaves Mickey with his pants down, watching him go, and thinking that maybe this is all going to work out just fine after all. He takes a few seconds to himself, then follows Ian out to the couch. 

*-*-*

Eventually Ian has to leave again, and Mandy decides to go out with her friends, and Mickey is left alone with the xbox waiting until it gets dark enough to start dealing. He’s planning on hitting up people who’ve bought from him before, mostly other kids from school, and trying to make as much of a profit as he can. 

After an hour or so, he turns the system off and goes to his room to roll out the weed into individual joints. It’ll give him more leeway to stretch out the product and is usually the best way to move it quickly with the kids in the neighborhood. The zig-zags in his nightstand are for personal use, but he has a large, retailer size box under his bed for just this purpose. When he pulls it out he has to blow a fine layer of dust off the box, and it makes him wonder when the last time he had the motivation, and energy, to sell was. 

He rolls just over fifty joints from each bag and by the time he’s done it’s fully dark outside. His hands are sore and they’re stinging from a few tiny cuts but, as he worked in silence repeating the same few actions over and over, he’s had an idea that he thinks will work better than trying to sell the joints for a buck a pop to the neighborhood kids. 

The plastic bin Mandy uses to take her clothes to the laundromat lies forgotten by her bedroom door, and Mickey takes it, fills it with the clothes from his room that smell the worst, takes a few quarters from the tin can by the sink which is empty after he’s gotten his three dollars and twenty-five cents, and hides the joints, tightly packed back into the ziplock bags, under all of it. 

He takes the L with his bin which eats up a portion of his laundry money, but he’s not worried; He’ll make it back plenty fast. The L takes him all the way up to La Salle where the Columbia college kids must also need a place to wash their clothes. He’s right, and there’s two laundromats not far from where he gets off. He picks the one with the flickering neon lights and soaped up windows, and by eleven o’clock he’s not only washed and dried his clothes, but sold most of his joints at five dollars a piece to haggard-looking nineteen and twenty-somethings who watch their clothes spin with dark circles under their eyes. The attendant, also college age and tired-looking, gets her three joints free if she agrees to not make trouble, and Mickey takes one for himself too. He doesn’t worry about the cops. There’s no ‘random’ safety checks here, less patrols going by, and he and the clerk light up right next to the driers because, on this side of the tracks, having white skin pretty much just gives you a free pass. 

He stops by Nick’s basement on the way home to pay off his debts, but doesn’t take him up on his offer to smoke, or his offer to spot Mickey some more weed. Whatever energy he had inside himself earlier is now gone. He trundles home, exhausted, a few hundred dollars richer, and thinking that tomorrow when he sees Ian his clothes will smell like fresh laundry. 

The house is no longer empty when he gets back, and his good mood doesn’t survive past making dinner in the kitchen. Terry has invited his gun club buddies over to play poker. It looks like an impromptu Klan meeting, and smells like an ashtray, or five. Mickey isn’t invited to play and he doesn’t ask, just takes his microwaved hotdog and two-liter soda into his room to eat. Even through his door, he can hear the yelling voices and hoarse laughter until he finally passes out sometime around two.

He wakes up to more yelling, and for a moment he thinks all the men must still be out there, playing poker and drinking beers even though he can tell by the sunlight it’s way past early morning. He cracks open his bedroom door and it’s just Terry, of course. He’s complaining about losing money the night before, and, worse, Mickey can hear Mandy’s voice in the kitchen too. It sounds like she’s scared and pleading with him, never a good tactic as far as their father is concerned; he only gets worse at the slightest signs of weakness. 

“Hey, what’s going on?” Mickey says in what he hopes is a neutral voice as he walks towards the kitchen. Terry is leaning against the sink and Mandy is on the floor under the table wiping something up with a wet rag. She isn’t crying and that’s a good sign, but she doesn’t look happy either. Terry looks over at him when he speaks and, for a moment, Mickey doesn’t think he recognizes him, but then the confused look disappears and he says:

“You sister says she can’t spot her old man twenty bucks.” 

It sounds like the most reasonable thing, probably because  _ Terry believes _ it's perfectly reasonable. Why shouldn’t a kid loan their dad twenty dollars? But Mandy is fifteen and she doesn’t have a job, and every penny she does manage to scrape up goes to groceries. Another thing he should add to his list of reasons why he’s grateful to her when he has the time. 

“Mandy doesn’t have twenty bucks. None of us do.” He’s tempted to wave around the room - to draw attention to the entire family’s obvious lack of money - but knows how Terry will react to any implications he isn’t providing a good life for his family. Instead, he holds his hand out to help Mandy up from under the table. She tosses the dirty rag into the sink and wipes the knees of her jeans off.

“I’m going to the store to get groceries. Anything you want?” She’s asking Mickey, but before he can answer, Terry interrupts.

“The hell you are! You ain't got twenty bucks for me then how the fuck are you going to buy groceries?” 

“All I’ve got is five in quarters and some food stamps, and I need it! How are we supposed to eat if there’s no food in the house?” 

Before Mickey can say anything to help, not that anything comes to mind, he hears a pounding knock at the door. It continues, growing louder, and he wonders if the Chicago police have started working like in that movie Minority Report, and are now here to preemptively break up a domestic fight before it becomes a murder. 

_ No one is getting murdered here. Terry wouldn’t. _

But sometimes, Mickey wonders.

No one else in the room seems to hear the knock, and he has no idea why Mandy’s being so confrontational today, but he leaves her to the fight. 

When he opens the door, it’s Ian. Showing up uncharacteristically at the worst possible time, and if that - along with the sounds of Terry continuing to yell from the kitchen - aren’t enough to tell Mickey his sudden bout of good luck has dried up, then the sight of Ian, sniffling, cold, and distraught, should have. But knowing when to fold isn’t a Milkovich’s strong suit and, even if Mickey  _ had  _ known getting mixed up with Ian Gallagher meant he was going to finish his day bleeding out on the Kash-and-Grab floor with a paramedic doing absolutely agonizing things to his leg, he probably still would have done everything the same.

Ian’s looking desperate, like something earth-shattering has happened, and still Mickey can’t help but think what they must look like standing here, whispering to each other on his stoop like a couple of fags. He tells Ian it’s not a good time, and it isn’t, but he still doesn’t leave. He says he doesn’t know where else to go and, for Mickey, being wanted or even just needed is a stronger draw than what’s happening behind him. So, he tells Ian they’ll meet at the store and closes the door before he can make any more promises. 

Back inside, Terry is yelling after Mandy, but Mickey only sees the edge of her jacket as she leaves out the back door, slamming it behind her. Terry hasn’t noticed him come back, and Mickey doesn’t give him a chance to. He slips back into his room to change into fresh clothes, grab his cigarettes, and leave again out the front before anyone can see him go. 

When he gets to the Kash-and-Grab, the bitch with a headscarf is chewing Ian out, he can tell even through the glass door by the way she’s waving her hands around while Ian looks at the floor and says nothing. So, he waits on the curb and smokes until the wanna-be terrorist leaves and the coast is clear. When he gets inside, Ian doesn’t say anything, just locks the door behind him and walks back towards the cooler. 

Mickey follows, but puts his hand on the reinforced door before Ian can pull it open. 

“Look,” Mickey says while trying to catch his eye but Ian’s looking down stubbornly. “I’m all for doing…this, whenever we can, but you can’t just show up looking for me like that.” 

He doesn’t say, ‘did you want to talk about something?’ because that would make it sound like they’re going to sit and hold hands while Ian says things like, ‘I feel sad because…’ But there’s obviously something on Ian’s mind, and since it’s dragged Mickey out of his house, he might as well find out what it is. 

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to talk about it.” Ian says, still looking at the floor, and he gives a hard yank on the handle. It catches Mickey by surprise, and moves the door open a few inches before he realizes and slams it back shut.

“Don’t push it Gallagher. If you’re in trouble, just tell me.”

“I’m not in trouble.” Ian gives the door another yank, but Mickey’s ready and this time it doesn’t budge. At least they’re looking each other in the eyes now. 

“You don’t get to come to my house-”

“I said I don’t-”

“And drag me across-”

“Want to talk about it!”

“Half the neighborhood for this shit!”

They’re yelling now, close to each other’s faces, and Ian looks so good, face flushed and his hackles up like he’s really ready to throw down over this. Mickey is starting to forget why they aren’t already fucking. 

Maybe Ian sees something on Mickey’s face, or maybe he just has a direct line to his thoughts, but either way, he switches tactics. He stops yelling, takes his hand off the handle and brings it to Mickey’s neck, who swats it away iratably, then settles for lifting the hem of Mickey’s shirt and placing it flat against his chest where it sits warmly. 

“I’m sorry I came to your house, but I need you. Please?” He’s rubbing Mickey’s stomach now gently, and it’s both comforting and mildly arousing when coupled with Ian’s soft voice. “We can talk after, but first let’s just do this. I need to unwind.”

“If you ever,” Mickey crowds Ian even more until his back is pressed against the door, but he isn’t mad; he can’t remember if he’s ever been mad at Ian. “come to my house looking for me like that again, I’ll nail your feet to the floorboards of that shitty van in your backyard.” 

Ian nods like he understands, but there’s something playful in his eyes. That something is Mickey’s first real glimpse at the lifetime of trouble Ian Gallagher is going to cause him, but in the moment, he barely notices. Ian really does look shaken and upset, and if he thinks sex is what he needs to feel better, Mickey can’t argue with that.

They pull away from the door and stumble over each other to get inside because, now that they’re done arguing, the only goal is to start fucking as soon as possible. Ian’s tugging at Mickey’s pants, trying to pull them down before the door even closes behind them, and he laughs at the way it makes Mickey trip over himself. He has to grab on to one of the tall stacks of plastic crates to stay upright, and it wobbles threateningly under his weight. 

“Fuck!” He says, but he feels like laughing too and there’s a genuine smile forming on his face. It’s an odd feeling, but he doesn’t get a chance to think about it because Ian makes another move like before, leaning in his head like he’s going to try for a kiss, and Mickey has to grab him by the chin and stop him before he can.

“What did I fucking say?” He asks, but Gallagher looks so hurt this time, it makes Mickey feel like a piece of shit. To keep them on track, he brings his hands down to pull at Ian’s shirt, lifts it off with the other boy’s help and tosses it onto one of the shelves behind them. There’s no explanation for what he does next, except he hates that hurt look on Ian’s face, and doesn’t much like that he put it there either. Whether it’s a smart thing to do or not, Mickey doesn’t consider because he’s already pressing his lips against Ian’s collarbone before he really gets a chance to think about what he’s doing. It might actually be the stupidest thing he’s ever done because he instantly wants more. 

His hand moves of its own accord to the back of Ian’s neck to hold him still while Mickey licks a long stripe up Ian’s collarbone with his tongue. Ian moans in appreciation and Mickey pulls him closer and licks him again, just under his chin and down to his adam’s apple. He shouldn’t have gotten a taste of Ian’s skin: it’s too good and now he’ll never be able to go back to a time when he didn’t know what it tasted like. He has no idea how he’s gotten here, how he’s broken so many of his own promises to himself in such a short amount of time, but he’s still licking Ian’s neck, along with the occasional nibble, and now Ian is pressing their hips together and sliding his hand between them to grab both their growing erections. 

It’s intimate, facing each other like this, all the places they’re touching, the taste of Ian on his tongue, and the slow but tight slide of his hand holding them. It’s gay. There’s no way around it; he’s about to get fucked by another boy who he’s not just physically attracted to, but also quickly becoming emotionally invested in. He tries not to think about it, doesn’t want to undo the progress Ian is making with his hand just because he’s having second thoughts about how far all this is going. Ian doesn’t seem to be having any second thoughts of his own as he presses his nose against Mickey’s hair and inhales.

“God you always smell so good.” Mickey feels his hips press forward at the words. No one has ever said anything like that to him, and he likes hearing it even if it can’t possibly be true. Even with the fresh clothes, he’s forgotten to shower again, and logically the only thing he should smell like is weed, cigarettes, beer and sweat.

“Shut the fuck up.” He says defensively, but the words lose some of their edge with his lips pressed into Ian’s shoulder.

“No, it’s true.” Ian says, moving his mouth so it’s closer to Mickey’s ear. “I can’t get enough of it.” 

Like a switch being flipped, it’s all suddenly too much.

Mickey pushes away from Ian. He’s not sure what kind of look fire crotch is giving him because now it’s his turn to avoid eye contact by looking at the floor. Somehow, he doubts it’s a smile. Especially when he says, “Can we just bang already; isn’t that what you said you wanted to do?” 

“It is.” Ian says, and even without looking Mickey can hear disappointment in his voice. 

From bad to worse, Mickey’s day is going from bad to worse and he can’t understand where all those good feelings from yesterday have gone. He keeps his head down and looks at Ian from the corner of his eyes feeling vulnerable in a bad way for the first time since they had started seeing each other like this. 

“I just…I can’t” Mickey says, and as far as excuses go it’s pretty shitty, so he doesn’t blame Ian for letting out a frustrated sigh. For a second they just look at each other, and Mickey thinks Ian might call the whole thing off, but then he shrugs and says, “Yeah, alright. I get it.” And turns Mickey around to lean against the shelf. 

They’re both only half hard and Mickey's starting to feel silly for his outburst now that they’re not facing each other and embracing anymore. 

From behind him, Ian says, “Say something sexy. I can’t think right now.”

“Sold some weed yesterday. Made, like, two hundred dollars.”

“Oh yeah?” Ian pulls his hips back and grinds against him, egging Mickey on.

“Yeah. You’re not the only one who makes money around here.” Ian continues grinding against him and hums appreciatively, so Mickey continues, trying to remember the last sexual thing he had done. “Thought about this when I was jerking off. Thought about getting fucked by you.”

His admission makes a shiver of arousal go down his own spine, and he takes his hand off the shelf to slowly stroke himself while Ian’s hands tighten on his hips. 

“Fuck yeah. I thought about that too, last night,” Ian says, moving his hands so he can give Mickey’s ass a firm squeeze. “And this morning.”

They’re getting back into it again when Ian pulls away to get their pants and boxers off the rest of the way, and Mickey tries to focus on the way his hand feels stroking himself, or imagining what they’re about to do, instead of the empty feeling he has when Ian pulls away. He’s never depended on any one person to get off before, and he’s not ready to give that up yet, but he also can’t ignore the way his body relaxes when Ian’s gentle pressure is on his back again. 

Ian’s hands are on his ass, spreading his cheeks and he feels the addictive stretching sensation of his finger, again so fucking cold, sliding inside him. 

“Jesus, man, breath on it or something first” He says, but when Ian’s finger pushes in deeper, he spreads his legs a little further apart to help. 

“Come by my house later,” Ian says, “We can fuck in the van. Take all the time we want.” That sounds fucking amazing, and Mickey huffs out a yes just as Ian adds a second finger. 

It burns a little, but Mickey barely notices. He just wants more, wants Ian inside him and filling him up until it’s the only thing he can think about. He settles for getting finger-fucked until it feels almost as good and he’s panting against the shelf, fully hard now. He tries to remember later, but has no idea how long they stand like that. Time means nothing when they’re like this, and Ian never seems to get tired of finding new ways to make Mickey moan. The way Ian touches him, it’s like he wants to have his fingers inside Mickey’s ass, like he wants to feel him from the inside and touch every part he can reach.

It’s different than just getting ready to fuck, like Ian’s exploring him, getting to know him in a way no one else ever will, and the more Mickey thinks about it, the more it makes him want to push back and close the distance between them until Ian is spooning him. He’s not needy, has never even considered that he might be, but he also can’t see himself now the way Ian can. Pants tight around his knees, heels pulling off the ground to try and get a better angle for his hips, head sagging, eyes closed and his mouth hanging open. 

“Fuck Mickey.” Ian says quietly, and they can both feel the way it makes Mickey shudder. He feels the fingers pull out of him slowly, and Mickey tries to put himself back together while he listens to Ian opening a condom and rolling it on. 

It’s easier not to feel conflicted when he’s hard and ready and waiting for Ian to push inside him. Everything feels so perfect like this, Ian letting out little groans in his ear as he slides in to Mickey. Just a little at first, then he pulls out, before pushing back in even further. He keeps it up at the same steady pace, and doesn’t bother to wipe his hand this time before bringing it up to wrap around Mickey’s on the metal pole. 

Ian’s a lot rougher this time, pounding into Mickey before he’s had time to adjust, and maybe he’s still thinking about whatever was bothering him earlier, but Mickey’s not complaining. 

When the door opens behind them, he doesn’t even hear it at first, but he feels Ian stop and pull out. 

Getting caught like this is terrifying in the exact same way getting caught by his father had been, except Mickey isn’t boneless and satisfied this time. He’s keyed up and half his mind is still living in what he and Ian had just been doing, and,  _ fuck _ . He’s pushing his way out of the room before the rest of him has a chance to catch up. 

He’s panicking, gets stuck at the front door for a moment that feels like an eternity, and has gone almost two blocks before he stops running and leans against the side of a brick building, not entirely sure where he is. 

When his heart finally slows down, and he can think again, he makes a silent vow to himself. Like a smoker promising to never light up again, Mickey swears to himself he’ll never see Ian again, or any other guy; He’ll only fuck women from now on. He swears, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. It does, however, get his feet moving, and he lets them guide him back home. Back home, where things are normal and he has a place to be alone, a place away from Ian Gallagher because Mickey can’t trust himself around that boy. Ian makes him crazy, makes him do crazy things, and Mickey’s poor mind can’t take any more. 

A lifetime of self control - of sleeping with girls at school, of fucking other boys only when he was absolutely sure he could get away with it - all of it out the door in less time than it would take him to grow a beard. It was Ian. Fucking Ian. The boy either had nothing to lose or just didn’t give a fuck, and Mickey had gone right along with it because there was something about Ian that he just couldn’t say no to. Not anymore, Mickey vows, never again. He’ll never see him again, drop out of school if he has to. He walks into the house still feeling shell-shocked as he storms into his bedroom and closes the door. He’s going straight from now on. No one will ever have reason to call Mikelo Milkovich a pussy or a fag or have anything but respect for him. Starting right now.

He goes through almost an entire pack of cigarettes sitting on the couch in his room with his head in his hands, blowing smoke out through his fingers. Now that he’s decided to break off contact with Ian, all he wants is not to think because every time he does it’s about Ian and, even worse, thinking about him makes Mickey want to cry. He can’t, hasn’t since he was very little, not about anything but especially not about this. What he needs to do is convince the store owner, and it was him - not Mickey’s father, as his frightened mind had considered - who walked in on them, to not snitch about what he saw. He doesn’t think it will be difficult, knows that the married son of a bitch had been messing around with Ian too not that long ago, but every time he thinks about going back, he remembers Ian will be there. It gives him a horrible, tight feeling in his chest and makes his eyes water until he stops thinking about it and the feeling goes away again. 

By the time he’s strong enough to go back, certain he has his emotions under control, it’s dark outside. It always gets dark early in the winter and Mickey isn’t sure how much time has actually passed, but he grabs his jacket before he heads out. Terry doesn’t bother to look up from his place on the couch as his son leaves into the night. 

Mickey goes over it in his head a few times, but when he gets to the Kash-and-Grab doors, he’s still not entirely sure what he’s going to say. He wants to look confident, but his heart’s pounding as he goes inside even though no one seems particularly surprised to see he’s come back.

“Fucking right, you keep your mouth shut.” He says to Kash while trying to ignore Ian who’s watching him from the back of the store. Kash doesn’t answer him, and Mickey’s feeling uncomfortable, wishing he was back at home. He takes a Snickers Bar from the counter and tries to bait the man into their old game: the one where Mickey says what he wants and takes what he wants and Kash doesn’t do shit about it, but the older man isn’t biting tonight. He tells Mickey to put the candy back, but he takes a bite instead, daring Kash to do something about it with his eyes.

“I like them sweet, but, then, so do you, huh?”

Mickey doesn’t know the term mutually assured destruction, but he understands the concept just fine. He knows when guys commit a crime together, everyone has to participate in some way; it’s their only way to make sure no one rats. The three of them are like that now: all equally guilty. He just has to make sure everyone present understands what the score is. 

He’s turning around, looking to see what other snacks he can take from this shithole, when a bang goes off, filling the store with the noise, and jars on a back shelf suddenly explode. Glass and pasta sauce fly off in different directions. He jerks back around on instinct, and, _ fuck _ , the timid store owner is holding his gun out again, but it’s not like last time when his hands had been trembling and his eyes afraid. This time, he’s holding it with a purpose and the safety is definitely off because another loud bang fills the store. Some bags of chips next to Mickey also explode, sending crumbs and dust cascading into Mickey’s hair. 

Momentarily stunned - ears ringing and brain racing to try and keep up with what’s happening - Mickey can hear Ian yelling but not what he’s saying, and the other boy doesn’t attempt to get between them, but Mickey can’t blame him. Because Kash is looking at him like his mind is made up, and Mickey takes one last chance to reason with him because he really doesn’t want to die over a Snickers. 

His words fall on deaf ears, though, and the gun goes off again just before Mickey’s entire right leg goes numb, gives out underneath him, and he falls onto his ass with a hard smack that makes his teeth knock together. The pain comes as soon as he’s on the floor, like the worst possible combination of barking his shin against a sharp corner and that time he had accidentally stabbed himself in the palm with his butterfly knife, and it pisses him off because he can practically  _ feel _ the hole this motherfucker just made in his leg.

Then Ian is there, freaking out like he’s never seen a gunshot wound before, and Mickey is doubly pissed because not only did he just get shot for taking fire crotch’s dick, but he can also feel the resolve to break-off contact bleeding out of him along with everything else when Ian strokes his head and tells him everything is going to be alright.

“You fucking suck!” He yells at Kash, but he might as well have saved his breath because the clerk looks more shocked than he feels, and is staring at Mickey like he’s never seen him before.

“Call 911!” Ian yells while he tries to hold Mickey’s leg with one hand and take his apron off with the other, but Kash just stares like he’s done with life for now and has decided to check out. Ian finally gets his apron off and folds it over itself to press against the bloody spot forming on Mickey’s jeans, ignoring the other boy’s hiss of pain. 

“Your belt,” Mickey says to Ian, trying to grab it, but the pain, which has been building ever since he fell over, is now reaching a sort of maddening crescendo and turning every one of his heart beats into an aching throb. It is making him lightheaded and he falls back onto the floor with a low groan.

“Call 911!” Ian screams it this time, loud enough to make Mickey’s ears start to ring again.

“Your fucking belt, asshole.” He tries again, but he really can’t lift his head just yet, so he says it to the fluorescent lights above him and their collection of dead bugs instead.

“What?” Ian asks, and Mickey thinks that if he has to explain it to him over the pounding in his head, then he probably is going to die on this dirty floor, twenty feet away from where he had been getting fucked in the ass just a few hours ago. Then Ian says, “Oh, fuck. Right,” and Mickey can hear him undoing his belt at the same time he hears Kash say, “Yes, there’s been a shooting at my store. A shoplifter was injured trying to steal from me.”

Mickey lets out another groan as Ian pulls the belt tight and the pain in his leg becomes so intense, he’s pretty sure he loses consciousness for a second. For a brief moment, he’s nowhere at all, floating through space and the agony of his leg is gone. Then, Ian’s voice cuts through the haze, and Mickey is back on the floor again, and the pain is back, and Ian is yelling at Kash - who must still have the gun somewhere near him - but Mickey can’t find the strength to make Ian stop. 

“That’s bullshit, and you know it! You shot him because you’re jealous, you fuck.” He doesn’t hear Kash’s reply, but what Ian says next is enough to make him finally sit up: “I’m going to tell the cops what happened, and they’ll fucking arrest you.”

“No,” Mickey says, pulling himself up and grabbing on to Ian’s arm when a wave of dizziness hits him. A picture is forming in his mind: him, laying in an ambulance, while Ian stands outside and explains to a cop how the three of them ended up in some twisted love triangle. 

_ Oh yes, officer, _ Mickey would say,  _ It’s extremely gay, and you see that little, pale redhead over there? Well, he’s the one who does the…you know. _

A laughing fit - although it comes out as a series of gasping wheezes - attacks Mickey while Ian looks at him, concerned. He can’t make it stop, though, until there are little white dots forming in front of his eyes, and he knows if he passes out it will be for good this time. If he’s lucky, he’ll wake up just in time for his father to choke him to death with one of those rainbow flags.

“Get the fuck out of here, Gallagher.” He says and grabs the belt so Ian can let go. “Fucking go before the cops get here. I can handle this.” He uses the last of his strength to push Ian away even though it makes him feel like he’s going to retch. 

“No, Mickey, I’m not going to leave you.” It’s such a stupid, sappy thing to say, and so completely Ian to say it, that Mickey almost gives in, but there’s no way in hell anyone can ever find out about this. Any minute, the sound of sirens will be coming through the glass storefront. 

“Fuck off, Ian. This is all your fault and I don’t need you here causing me any more trouble.” Ian’s face falls back into that horrible, hurt expression, but there’s truth in what he said and they both know it. Right on time, the sirens do come, real and slowly growing louder. Ian looks at Kash, then back at Mickey, who’s doing his best to look pissed off instead of in pain, spits out one last ‘fuck’ and then leaves out the front door.

Now it’s just him and Kash. Mickey, still sitting on the floor in a growing puddle of his own blood, and the hand holding the belt is not just trembling but full on shaking, looks up and sees Kash looking down at him. 

“Happy now?” Kash asks.

Mickey sits up straighter and looks right back.

“I’m going to fucking  _ kill _ you for this.” He says, and he must look a lot more frightening than he feels, because any of the cockiness left on Kash’s face disappears, and he’s nothing but the timid store clerk again. “You better fucking run. Because as soon as I can walk, I’m coming for you.”

Before he can say anything else or, more likely, slump over and pass out, the very normal sound of the electronic bell over the door goes off, and then there are paramedics and police officers coming in. Which is usually the case when a Milkovich’s luck runs out.

*-*-*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm really enjoying writing this, and I'll have the last bit of season 1 up soon and start writing season 2 :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, short chapter this time. Just finishing up season 1 with Mickey's trip to Juvie. Maybe it's a little canon divergent, but it stays true to the main story line. There's just so much wiggle room in their story, and I like to think Mickey and Ian are close friends and not just off-and-on lovers :) Even in the first season!

Season 1; Chapter 3:

He wakes up, his wrists strapped to a hospital bed with only fleeting memories of the night before, and feeling thirstier than he’s ever been in his life. When the nurses come in, they either can’t or won’t undo the restraints, and he has to drink from a straw while they hold the cup for him like he’s a dying old man. After they’re done making sure he isn’t feeling too good from the pain meds, or whatever their job is, a uniformed officer comes in, explains his rights, and informs him he’s currently in the custody of Chicago PD until such a time as he can be booked, processed, and arraigned. 

Mickey doesn’t correct him that it will probably be a lot longer than that because there’s no way in hell his family will make bail for him, and he likes the simplicity of silence so much he ends up saying nothing at all. Not to this officer; Not to the detective who comes by and tries in vain to get a statement; Not to the corrections officers at booking, who don’t seem to find that too unusual; Not to the public defender and DCHS officer who come to see him after his arraignment. Outside of answering the nurses when they ask if he’s hungry or wants more pain meds, Mickey doesn’t say anything at all until he’s brought to his cell at county to await sentencing, and decides he should probably at least try to get along with his cellmate. 

He doesn’t stay quiet because he’s angry, though he is. Furious, in fact, after the detective and his lawyer, in an attempt to goad him into giving a statement, tell him all the shit Kash said about him. It also isn’t because he’s proud or wants to be rebellious - with his leg in a state of near-constant dull pain, and the various forms of embarrassment he’s forced to suffer throughout the booking process - he doesn’t feel like either of those things. It’s mostly just because he knows there’s no point. He’s a Milkovich and he had always known where he would end up. Had known ever since he was very young and, in the midst of one of his drunken stupors, his father had told him so. It had been prison for his father - Mickey’s grandfather - prison for Terry, and, one day, it would be prison for little Mickey too. A real nice thing to tell a child, he had always thought, but here he is: proving his father right. There’s nothing he could say to all the cops, lawyers, and child service workers in the world to change the fact that he is meant to be here.

So, he stays quiet because, really, what’s the point arguing it? Every single one of these people look at him like he’s guilty, and why shouldn’t they? He is. He had stolen that Snickers Bar, and plenty others. He belongs here. Hell, as far as the justice system is concerned, he deserved to get shot too. 

The second night in his temporary cell, Mickey wants to go home so badly, to be in his own bedroom where everything is his and smells like him, he cries. Silent tears that stream down his face as he looks up at the underside of the top bunk above him. 

He isn’t lonely, at least. Never has been much of a people person anyways, but there’s more than enough company here. Some that he likes, like his cellmate, and others he could do without, like that Irish bastard who thinks Mickey’s crutches make him an easy target. They don’t. 

After the first night he’s managed to convince himself that Ian and Kash are probably off fucking right now, laughing about poor Mickey Milkovich on his way to a life of revolving door prisons. He doesn’t want to think that way, but can’t help it. He's been conditioned by a lifetime of abandonment to expect it. So, when he puts his pin into the machine for the commissary account, hoping more than expecting someone in his family had put some cash in there like he occasionally did for them, and see’s that there has been a deposit for four hundred dollars from I. Gallagher, it’s like a heavy weight has been pulled off of him. Things get a little easier after that, and he finds more energy to try and fit in with the other men who are also waiting for the courts to decide their fates.

He’s not really expecting visitors, had thought maybe Mandy, or that public defender, might come by, but neither of them do. So, when he does see Ian, waiting for him behind a wall of plexiglass and looking so beautiful, especially compared to the poor selection of humanity on display in the room around him, it almost feels like everything is going to be alright. He tries not to smile. Smiling in jail is a little like smiling at his house: someone in a bad mood might see it, and it might piss them off and put a target on your back. Still, seeing Ian makes his chest feel lighter. 

“Kash did it,” Ian says when Mickey thanks him for the commissary money, “I told him you might still press charges.” It’s another weight off his chest because, as happy as he is to have all the smokes and ramen he needs, it’s even better knowing Ian didn’t have to scrimp or save, or spend any of his own money on it. 

He doesn’t stop there. He talks to Mickey like they’re dating, tells him about his life as though he’s going to wait on the outside for Mickey like some knocked-up south-side girl, and some part of Mickey fucking loves it. Even as he tells Ian to stop - stop talking like that, stop reaching out to him from the other side of the glass - he feels better than he has in a long time. 

If this is how men feel around women all the time, a lot of behavior that seemed ridiculous to Mickey before is starting to make sense now. 

He makes Ian take his hand off the glass because, damn, how oblivious can that boy be? If the other inmates find out Mickey’s gay, not just down to fuck while he’s inside, but genuinely, takes-it-in-the-ass, has a boyfriend on the outside, gay, the guards will be carrying what’s left of him out of here in ziplock bags. They still have some time though, so he asks because it’s been on his mind:

“What, that it? What you wanted to talk about before. That Frank’s not your father?”

Ian scoffs, but Mickey can see he’s holding something back. He’s pretty practiced himself, in the art of deflection.

“No,” Ian says, and he’s looking over Mickey’s shoulder now. “Having Monica, my mom, come back. All at once, after she’d been gone for so long. Seeing her again was just a lot I guess.” 

Mickey nods because he gets it. Knows exactly what it means to feel abandoned, to grow to hate your mother for just not being there like all the other mothers were, to imagine she’s dead and feel absolutely nothing for her, and then to see her back at home, making dinner or sweeping the floor like she had never left, and realize you had been fooling yourself the whole time. To realize all that anger had been a lie and all along she was still the same old mom that you loved; needed. He’s trying to think of some way to say all that out loud without sounding like a sappy idiot, but before he can, Ian blinks and the sad look in his eyes disappears, replaced by an impish smile. 

“But you’re going to be good right?” He asks, “Get out of here early?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna try.”

“Okay, because I-”  They can’t have more than a few minutes left to talk, but Mickey watches, fascinated, as Ian struggles to find words for what he wants in a way he can say here. He must have a self-preservation instinct after all, because eventually he gives up and just waves his hand around vaguely. 

“Yeah,” Mickey says, “Me too. But just listen for a second.”

“Okay, but-”

“There’s a few hundred bucks under my mattress-”

“Before we have to go. I want-”

“Shut. The fuck up. And listen Gallagher. Christ.” Ian looks like he doesn’t want to do either of those things, but he stays quiet so Mickey continues, “A few hundred bucks under my mattress, and a little something extra which you might as well smoke because it won’t be good for shit by the time I get out. For Christ's sake, don’t let Terry see you, but take it. If you need it. Get Mandy to let you in, but don’t let that bitch see you take it either because she’ll want some.”

Ian’s looking at him, and Mickey would pay a lot more than two hundred dollars to know what he’s thinking, but eventually he says, “Thanks, Mickey.”

“Whatever. Not like it’s doing me any good in here anyways.”

“Okay, now you listen,” Ian says, scooting a little closer and raising his hand to cover his mouth as he talks into the receiver. “I might not be able to come back for another visit. If I give you my home number will you remember it? Will you call?” 

Mickey looks at the people on either side of him, but they seem preoccupied enough with their own lives. So, he says he will, and Ian tells him the number, and he does remember. He repeats it over and over in his head while the guard tells him ‘time’s up’ and leads him away, and Mickey looks at Ian through the glass until he can’t see him anymore. 

He repeats it to himself for the rest of the day, and sometimes at night when he can’t sleep, and he never forgets it. Not even five years later, when he’s standing in the blistering heat outside of a shop at the only working payphone for miles. He remembers the number while the operator tells him to  _ Ingrese el número de teléfono que desea marcar _ , and he remembers the way Ian had looked that day, telling Mickey he missed him. 

*-*-*

Two weeks after Ian’s visit, Mickey goes in for sentencing. He meets with his lawyer a few hours before, and this time he talks, asks questions, and listens. Because he said he would be good and would try to get out as soon as possible, and he had meant it. 

The meeting is discouraging though. Does he have a suit he can wear to court? His lawyer asks, but he doesn’t and can’t think of how he would get one. Does he have someone, a well-dressed, concerned relative who can sit on the bench behind him? As amusing as it is to think of Mandy - chewing her gum with her mouth half open looking like she’s ready to proposition anything in a ten-mile radius with a dick - sitting behind him while the judge looks on, Mickey says that no, he doesn’t have that either. Does he have someone on the outside who can promise him employment upon release? Definitely, no. His lawyer, who can’t be more than a few years older than Mickey – possibly the most discouraging thing of all – is looking at him like he’s being poor on purpose.

“Can you at least look at the judge, be sincere, apologize for what you’ve done and promise not to do it again?” He asks, and Mickey thinks about Ian asking him if he can be good.

“Yeah. I can do that.”

“Okay,” The lawyer gathers his folders off the table and gives Mickey a last once-over. “The crutches should help, I’ll see what I can do about a suit and, for the love of god, don’t let the judge see those tattoos. I’ll see you in a few hours. Don’t do anything stupid before then.”

Mickey doesn’t. He stands at one of the reinforced windows in the common area and looks out until the guards call his name again. The lawyer is good to his word and brings a suit for Mickey to change into in the courthouse bathroom while a corrections officer stands by and watches him struggle with his crutches. The jacket is too big for him, but not comically so. He thinks it’ll be fine, and it hangs low enough on his arms to cover his fingers, so the lawyer should be happy about that. 

It takes forever for his case to be called, and he can’t stop himself from fidgeting even though it makes the people nearby look at him irritably. When it is finally his turn, no one, from the county prosecutor, in his equally uncomfortable looking suit, to the judge, a tired looking woman who keeps fanning herself with the papers on her podium, seems particularly interested in the fate of Mickey Milkovich. With the suit making him itch, his leg throbbing, and a room full of unfamiliar faces looking at him dispassionately, Mickey’s finding it hard to care himself. He waits, standing behind a small desk next to his public defender, while the Judge pulls an iced coffee from under the podium, takes several long gulps through the straw, and puts it back. 

“Mr. Milkovich,” She says while opening what he assumes is his own case file in front of her. “You have been charged with criminal trespass and petty theft by the state of Chicago. How do you plead?”

Testifying, a jury, the possibility of being tried as an adult. Mickey knows all the reasons he’s better off pleading guilty, but he’s still taken by surprise at how hard it is to say the word. 

“Guilty.” He does get it out, but his voice cracks a little at the end, and the judge must notice because she glances up and really seems to look at him for the first time. 

“It says here you’re sixteen.” It’s not a question, but Mickey nods anyways. “And you stole a Snickers bar.” Now it sounds more like she’s talking to herself as she skims over the papers in front of her.

“Shop owner says he warned you about shoplifting several times previously. Is there any reason you kept going back to steal food there?” There is. He has perfect hair, perfect skin, more freckles than a man could count, and an almost supernatural hold over Mickey.

“Close to my house I guess.” He says.

“There food in your house?” The question takes him by surprise and Mickey feels himself blink. 

“Sometimes.” He says, unsure why the question makes him feel so uncomfortable. 

“And your parents?”

“Sometimes.” He answers again, and she looks at him sharply like she’s trying to decide if he’s being funny, but he keeps a straight face. It’s nothing but the truth. Sometimes food, sometimes parents, sometimes beatings. 

She lets out a small sigh and starts gathering the papers back into the folder again, and Mickey finally feels his heart start to race because this is it, and a year is starting to feel like a very long time.

“Is there anything else you wish to say to the court before you receive your sentence?” She asks and Mickey is glad his public defender gave him a heads up because his mind is threatening to go blank. 

“Just that I’m sorry. I know what I did was wrong, and it won’t happen again.” 

_And, please, give me another chance._ _I don’t want to be my father._

“Very well. The court finds you guilty of petty theft and criminal trespass and sentences you to five months in Juvenile detention, time served, and ninety days probation. You’re dismissed.”

His lawyer gives him a pat on the back, and a nearby officer puts the cuffs back on his wrists, but Mickey barely notices. Five months. Time served. That’s basically just four months now. Four months instead of twelve. 

Gratitude isn’t something that often comes to Mickey, but he’s feeling it now and says a sincere ‘thank you’ to the judge before the officer can lead him away.

“Don’t let me see you in here again, Mr. Milkovich.” She responds.

*-*-*

Mickey calls the Gallagher house twice and hangs up before the first ring each time, his heart pounding. Whoever answers the call will hear the electronic operator explain that it’s coming from the juvenile detention center, and they’re probably going to have some questions about why Mickey Milkovich is calling their house from Juvie. 

There’s only three phones in the cell block and the second time he hangs up, the guy behind him who’s waiting yells out ‘come on man,’ and Mickey tells him to mind his own fucking business. 

He’s either going to do it this time or he’s never going to.

It’s easier after the first ring to let it keep going. He thinks if someone else answers he can tell them he was looking for Mandy or some shit. Once again, the line between things he thought he’d never do - calling the family of the guy he’s been fucking - and the things he’s currently doing, is becoming blurred. It rings another four times before someone on the other end picks it up. Sure enough, the voice on the phone starts explaining that this is a free call from an inmate and would they like to answer? 

He feels the same stomach-churning panic of exposure as getting caught with Ian twice already, but forces himself not to hang up again. The damage has already been done; he might as well find out who’s on the other line.

“Mickey, is that you?” The voice isn’t Ian’s. It’s older and masculine and must be Lip, and this was an unbelievably stupid idea. Before he can make up his mind on what to do, Lip says, “Hey, I’ll get Ian. Just don’t hang up, okay? Give me one minute. One minute. Don’t hang up.”

The boy on the phone next to him has started to cry quietly, and Mickey can hear him asking the person on the other line for money. He doesn’t hang up, even though he’s starting to feel like an asshole. Instead, he looks at the caged clock on the wall above him and decides he’ll give the second hand one more rotation before he hangs up. It doesn’t make it past the twenty second mark before there’s another voice on the end of the line.

“Mickey?” It’s Ian’s this time, and he sounds a little out of breath. 

“Yeah. Who the fuck else would be calling you from here?” Mickey makes the mistake of glancing behind him, and sees that impatient fucker waiting tap his wrist as though he’s wearing a watch.

“Where are you calling from?” Ian asks, and Mickey almost snaps something about how the phone voice told Lip, but then he probably wouldn’t be able to stop himself from asking how the fuck Lip knew he was calling for Ian. After the last few emotionally exhausting weeks, he just really doesn’t want to know the answer to that. 

“Juvie. I got moved today.” He says instead. Having to explain himself makes him feel irritable. 

“Did you get your sentence?” Ian asks. 

It sounds like he really cares which is the problem with Ian Gallagher because there’s no reason he should. Why hasn’t anyone ever taught him to mind his own business?

“Yeah.”

“…and?”

“Five months, time served. I should-” Now, Impatient Guy is making tick tock sounds with his tongue. Mickey has to put his hand over the reciever to tell him to fuck off and bother someone else unless he feels like today is a good day to die. He doesn’t hold the phone back up until the guy has walked away. “Fuck, I can’t think in this place it’s so fucking loud.”

“Did you say you only got five months?” 

“Yeah, four with the time I’ve already done. Should be out around May I guess.”

“Oh shit, Mickey, that’s great.” And now it’s Ian’s turn to cover the receiver and say something to someone else. It’s quiet coming through the line, but Mickey thinks he hears Lip yell out, ‘That’s great, Mickey!’

“Does you’re whole fucking family have to know my business?”

“It’s just Lip. Hey, did you call Mandy and tell her? Because last time I talked to her she said she hadn’t heard from you.” He hasn’t. Calling Mandy isn’t on his list of things to do right after moving into his cell, but Mickey knows how Ian is about her, so he tells him he will. 

Ian tells him that things are rough at home, that his mother had tried to take his youngest brother to go live with her new dyke wife but changed her mind and left again. He tells Mickey about struggling in school and trying to bring his grades up but never making it past a B even in his easiest classes. Mickey listens to it all silently, soaking it in, and brings his free hand up to cover his other ear and try to block out the competing noise. 

He wants to hear more, could probably listen to Ian talk for hours before he got tired of it - maybe he would never get tired of it - but impatient guy has taken the phone from crying boy now and is shooting Mickey angry looks, and behind him two more inmates have lined up for their turn, so he tells Ian he has to get going. 

“What, already?” Ian asks, sounding put out, but a glance back up at the clock tells Mickey they’ve already been talking for almost ten minutes. 

“Yeah. What, do you want me to sing you a lullaby so you can go to sleep? I just called because you wanted me to.” 

“Alright, alright. When are you going to call again? So I can be here.” Mickey had thought about that too, but wasn’t going to bring it up. He had kept up his side anyways, and called like he said he would. Now that Ian’s asked, though, he digs himself in a little deeper and makes another promise.

“Same time next week, and I swear to fucking god, if Lip ans-”

“He won’t; I’ll be here. This time next Tuesday?”

“Is today Tuesday?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, yeah. This time next Tuesday.” Mickey’s crowded close to the phone and trying to talk low, but he still feels like everyone in the place is watching him.

“Okay. I’ll talk to you then.”

“Okay.” Mickey says and hangs up before either of them can say anything else.

*-*-* 

He’s off his crutches and walking with only a slight limp shortly after that. Some of the other inmates complain and say the infirmary here is terrible, but it’s miles better than the clinic in the yards, and free. So, Mickey doesn’t complain. Until they take him off his pain meds and put him on Ibuprofen. After that the nights become impossibly long, and the times between his calls with Ian are like decades unto themselves. He can’t hide his weekly phone calls, or the way his mood improves for a few hours after them, so he tells his cell mate he’s talking to a girl named Diane who’s waiting for him on the outside. Word spreads that he’s got a bird making him call like clockwork and he gets teased, but it’s light-natured teasing, mixed with a little jealousy. In some cases, it even seems to help him get along with the other guys. He likes it, getting along with the others like this, but never forgets that if they found out it was Ian and not Diane, the reaction would be very different.

He is a little disappointed he’ll never graduate now. He had gotten pretty far and, on several occasions, had fought pretty hard to get them not to expel him, but now he knows his chances of going back to graduate are pretty much none. Mickey’s never done much dreaming about his future, even before he was locked up, but apparently he had done at least a little because at night he can feel those dreams unraveling. Dying like plants someone forgot to water. Only it’s happening inside him somewhere, and he feels like he’s the one who’s dying.

That’s how Mickey Milkovich went from his junior year in highschool to juvie; from his warm bed he would never under-appreciate again, to a metal cot and thin pad and not even a pillow to put over his head and drown out the snores and screams and constant yelling. How he lost his chance at a diploma, and at ever getting out of his shithole house in his shithole neighborhood. How he ended up with a bullet hole in his leg and feeling like his life is pretty much over before it started. 

He had done it all himself, made every choice. But, in his defense, Ian Gallagher is the most interesting person he’s ever met and, if he had to do it all over again, he would. Well, except maybe that last Snickers bar. Probably could have done without that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! I should have the first part of season 2 up soon-ish!


End file.
